The Obeisance of Memory
by rockpaperscissor
Summary: AU of season 4. “Look, I’ve got no idea who your brother is, but uh, I think I might be him. Just, y’know, alive.”
1. who can say for certain?

**The obeisance of memory  
**

* * *

_A/N: This prompt is probably terribly overdone, but it's a lot of fun to write and I enjoyed experimenting with it. Hope it amuses you folks to read as much as it did me to write. _

_I do have more written, if anyone's interested. Please review if you are!_

* * *

_**Sam**._

When he opens his eyes, he's struck by the _wrongness_ of it all.

He's not all too clear what he means by that, exactly. The feeling just pervades all over – his legs, his arms, the tip of his nose. It's almost like a tingle, or an itch. He just knows it's there.

Whatever it is is quickly forgotten a moment later, however, when he's rather more struck by the immediate need for air.

Turns out, that need is surprisingly difficult to satisfy – although he's not sure why he feels surprised, since he hadn't been particularly expecting anything in the first place. It isn't like there was anything _before_.

…If there was even a before to begin with.

Somehow he knows he's supposed to fight, though; he flails his arms and they hit something hard (_wood_, his mind supplies helpfully); tries to shout for help, but nothing escapes his throat except for a scratchy cry that doesn't sound like him at all… he doesn't think.

Everything's black - or dark, whatever. He can't see a thing, is what it comes down to, and he's pretty sure there's no one there to hear him, so there's probably no help on that front.

By now he's starting to panic a little more, but he feels pretty entitled – lack of air just has that effect on a person, and it doesn't help that he's inside… wherever he is. His fists continue to beat against the wood instinctively, harder and harder, and then there's a sound like something cracking.

He barely has time to think _hope that wasn't me _before his world collapses.

0000

Bitterness fills his mouth and nostrils when he tries to inhale.

This isn't a metaphor, by the way – the acrid taste is almost overpowering as something powdery and rough and soft all at once feels like it's trying to enter him any way possible. And fuck if that doesn't sound dirty, but that's just how it is.

From there on, it's a mindless struggle up. Some vestige of instinct flares and tugs him in what must be the right direction, because after an eternity of plowing so hard his fingers bleed and his arms ache, just as black spots invade his vision and a smartass part of him thinks distantly _well, that was short-lived_, his hands suddenly find nothing to fight against.

For one entire, incredibly _dumb _second, he actually _stops_; actually panics that it's over, that there's no more up, or whatever. Then his lungs remind him that hey, on short lease here, and he calls himself an idiot and gets back to the business of working his way free – otherwise known as trying to survive more than several pitiful minutes in this cruel, cruel world.

And that's actually a lot harder than it sounds. His oxygen-starved arms feel heavier than a baby boomer each, so he has to use his oxygen-starved legs to push himself up, and all the while his head is spinning frantically like a seriously amped-up Ferris wheel. But finally a breeze ruffles his hair, then brushes against his eyelids, then his nose and his mouth and for God's sake just _do it already_ –

He breathes in; a ragged, loud gasp. The air tastes sweeter than the finest beer, the prettiest woman, the best chocolate. Not that he can remember the last time he's had any of those, but oh, the comparison is apt enough without haggling over the details.

He lets his mind blank out for a couple of seconds, then hauls himself up and out of the earth.

…_Wait_. _Earth?_

He stumbles to his feet and looks down at himself, squinting in the sunlight. His clothes are mussed and covered with dirt and earthworms, his skin is smeared with brown. He's standing in the middle of what looks like ground zero, trees and posts all bent out in a circle, except here and there he can see some grass and yeah, there's the little hole in the earth he must have come from... except wait a minute, that doesn't make _sense_.

Did he really just dig himself out of the ground?

There's a large, haphazardly-built wooden cross in the corner of his vision. He turns to stare. It takes him a moment to figure it out.

A grave. This is a grave.

...Apparently, _his _grave.

_Holy shit_, his brain says bewilderedly. _I think I'm a zombie_.

0000

…He doesn't _feel _like a zombie. His skin – well, what he can make out under the dirt, anyway – looks a rather healthy tan slash pink, and it feels pretty attached, not sewed on or anything (although maybe he's getting his legends mixed up, but who cares). He checks his face, and everything's there that's supposed to be there, he's rather certain, eyes and nose and mouth and ears.

Maybe he's a ghost, he muses, except he doesn't think ghosts need to break open their caskets and manually dig themselves out of graves. The lucky bastards.

His stomach growls. He waits hopefully for a second, but no matter how hard he tries he can't detect any particular hunger for brains. His throat's pretty parched too, but it doesn't seem to be craving blood or cerebral spinal fluid or anything apart from maybe water.

Which comes as a bit of a relief, as he isn't really emotionally prepared to devour anything bigger than a sandwich. Though it still leaves him the slightly pressing question of _what the crap _am _I?_

He walks around the disturbed earth in order to look more closely at the cross (grave marker, really, it doesn't look as if the person who built it gave a flying fuck about what a cross should look like), hoping for a clue of some kind as to who he's supposed to be. There isn't any writing or anything useful, however, not a date or even an inscription to suggest that someone gave a damn about the poor shit buried six feet under.

That's pretty sad, he thinks, running a hand through his hair. If that's the grave of the person whose body he's using, the guy must have led a pretty crappy life.

Wait, no.

I_ must have led a pretty crappy life_, he corrects himself, then stops, says that again aloud. Feels out the words.

…Nothing. He waits cautiously, stares intently at the cross as if that might speed things up, but not even a glimmer of that crappy life flashes before him.

This might as well be someone else's grave.

Maybe it is, he thinks distantly, except it makes even less sense to rise from someone else's grave than from your own, so he decides to stop wondering and just get on with being whatever he is, zombie or not.

He starts walking. It's hot; sweat burns tracks through the dirt on his face. When he takes off his jacket (well, _someone's_ jacket anyway) soil falls from it to the ground as if it had been an extra lining.

The world is pretty, he supposes, but it gets old, fast – at least twenty minutes pass before he sees anything other than trees and dirt and pale blue sky. And that's just a stupid squirrel.

Bumfuck, Middle of Nowhere. Heck of a burial ground, he thinks acidly. There isn't even another grave for company - let alone another alive-but-previously-dead-person, for that matter. Someone must have _really_ hated his guts.

Or, you know, whoever's guts he has.

Eventually he comes across what he decides more than makes up for the lousy squirrel – a way station or a fill-up joint, something like that. He doesn't really care for the details.

…He doesn't really care that it's locked, either.

Because come on, he's a frigging _zombie_ – breaking and entering, stealing, it's all really nothing when pitted against the prospect of snacking on brains. He should be given a damn medal for not eating anyone, is what it is. Not that there's anyone around to talk to, let alone snack on - but hey, if there was, he wouldn't be eating them. He should totally get points for that.

Really, the world should be grateful.

He makes for the water bottle section like a zebra to a water hole. Or a camel to an oasis. Some kind of cool African mammal to some kind of water place. Either way, the speed he's going is almost superhuman. (Well, not literally, he doesn't think. But pretty close, he's _that _thirsty.)

Water, he thinks, tastes even better than air.

He snags some candy bars – so at least he knows he's had candy at some previous life/incarnation/whatever, because he instinctively knows that Three Musketeers are so-so, Crunch is all right, and Twix rocks harder than Kurt Cobain (okay, so apparently he knows who Cobain is, too) – into a plastic bag, and after a moment of consideration throws in some nuts and a couple of power bars, mostly just to appease the nagging voice that tells him sugar can only get him so far. He stops after putting in a bag of chips, because hey, he doesn't want to ransack the place. He might not have a penny to his name–or any compunction whatsoever about stealing– but he does have a heart.

...Probably has a heart. Something is pumping blood (he knows he has that, at least) through his body, and it is probably a heart.

Anyway. He makes his way to the cash register, chomping down on a Crunch, and decides that chocolate tastes better than water.

It doesn't take very long to figure out how to open the register. He takes all the fifties and twenties they have – which isn't a friggin' lot – and most of the tens. Leaves the rest, because he's such a damn softie. Although to be honest, he's pretty sure nothing will happen if he gets caught by the cops – what, are they gonna lock up a dead guy? Worst they can do is put him in a psych ward for having amnesia or Alzheimer's or whatever he has. Dead man's disease?

Things to ponder at a later time.

He's just about to close it – seriously, he is – when the loudest ringing he's ever heard (which okay, he's already established to not mean much) threatens to burst his eardrums. The sound's so high and grating it's practically _physical _– the door slams against the wall as it opens and closes, the windows shatter, and the little TV in the corner flickers on and off as if some damn kid is playing with the remote.

He instinctively throws himself to the floor, hands over his ears and eyes squeezed shut.

As quickly as the deluge begins, though, it ends. He stays on the ground for a couple of seconds, but nothing happens so he gets up. There's nothing outside, no matter how hard he stares out the window, ready to hit the deck in case of another cosmic freakout.

Which is the only thing he can think of to explain… whatever just happened.

The bar for weird is set pretty high when you start out life in a grave, but he's thinking that this just might take the cake.

0000

Four hours, three Twix and a bag of chips into his search for civilization, Not-a-Zombie's thinking very longingly of the crappy blue car parked back at the gas station. On second (third, fourth and thirtieth) thought, maybe he could have figured out how to hotwire it after all. Alarm, shmalarm. What exactly had he been thinking when he'd decided to walk?

He's still stuck in that train of thought when he walks past the sign of _Pontiac__, 2 miles_. He thinks about it when he walks past the sign of _Welcome to Pontiac!_, and he continues to dwell on it even when he actually sets foot into Pontiac, Illinois itself. Because really, what's he going to do when he finds civilization – he pointedly ignores the buildings around him as well as the realization that civilization, in fact, has already been found – he can't go on stealing from abandoned gas stations forever, and dead or not, he's got no clue who he is, so even if he isn't 'officially' dead (which might be the case. Considering how out-of-the-way Bumfuck was, some hick probably shot him by accident and didn't let anyone else know), it's not like he can make use of it.

Point is. He's alive, but damn if he knows how to stay that way.

Not-a-Zombie's legs seem to know something he doesn't, though, as they lead him in the direction of what must be the dodgiest diner ever. Catching a waft of the smell from the place, he guesses that grease is probably pretty prominent on the menu, but for a cheap first meal he supposes it's a pretty decent start. _Good going_, he compliments his feet.

They don't reply, but he figures that's probably a good thing.

There don't seem to be many people inside, which is just fine with Not-a-Zombie. As he settles into a booth, bag of candy still in his hand, he gets a surly look from a stick of a woman wearing a short pink dress with a white apron.

"Can I get you your order?" she snipes nasally instead of greets, and he stares helplessly in fascination as she bites at the lipstick-smear that is her mouth. She looks like she's trying really hard not to breathe.

His first human interaction, and already he can tell it's not going well. "Uh, can I…" he stops, sniffs, wrinkles his nose. Ooh, something _reeks_.

...Oh.

"Actually, hold that thought. Got a bathroom?"

0000

His walk back from the bathroom is a lot more cheerful than his walk inside. He's a handsome son of a gun really, once you got rid of the mudslinging-monkey look, and he might have gone a little crazy with the water, maybe, but feeling halfway clean is definitely worth it.

His new waitress – apparently there was a changing of the guard while he's been gone – seems to agree with him, since she's currently beaming at him over his menu with the look girls should probably just reserve for puppies. Maybe girls like the baffled look, or maybe it's just this one who enjoys it when guys squint at their greasy menu in total confusion. Either way, he's definitely going to need to step up his game in the future; being suave probably feels a lot more dignified.

For now, though, he has other worries on his mind - the main one being that he has absolutely no idea what to order.

No idea. None. It's ridiculous. He has no idea what he likes.

Cheese fries? Pancakes? The images pop up in his head like from a catalog, picture perfect, but nothing accompanies them, no disgust, no anticipation. Nothing.

He frowns, something in his gut twitching uncomfortably. He's never been at a loss before; the feeling is foreign and utterly unpleasant.

It just seems... wrong. It is wrong, right? Shouldn't there be some kind of instinct helping him out with this? Something, at least, that tells him _these are your favorite_ or _this sounds good _or _try this, it__ will definitely taste awesome in your mouth?_

There shouldn't be this blankness.

"Would you like another minute?" the waitress says delicately, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She seems a bit less charmed but somewhat more sympathetic, like she can literally see his helplessness. "...Sir?"

"Sam," he tells her automatically. He blinks, surprised at himself, then says slowly, "... Jackson. Sam Jackson," all natural and suave-like, as if he hasn't come up with it just this minute.

The corner of his mouth lifts. Oh, he's _good_.

She grins at him. "All right, Sam Jackson," she stresses his name subtly, like its their own inside joke. He kinda likes it. "Would you like for me to help you narrow it down?"

She is rapidly becoming his favorite person in the world. "Oh please," he says in relief.

Her eyes crinkle at the corners. "Well, then. We've got plenty of lunch specials here, and obviously I'm obligated to tell you that they're all fantastic." She gestures at the menu expansively, and after a moment whispers confidentially, "They're actually not."

He finds himself enjoying this. "I'm not willing to settle for anything less than fantastic," he says seriously. "What are my options?"

Her grin widens. "Today you have two. Local favorite, our famous chicken sandwich. My favorite, spicy hot buffalo wings. Especially good if you're hungry," she adds as she looks down at him. "Whatever you choose, both are extremely fantastic."

"I, uh…" The newly-named Not-a-Zombie stares at the menu for a couple more seconds, then gives up. "All right, you convinced me." He leans back happily, decision made, and hands her the menu.

She takes it perplexedly, then prompts, "So? What do you want?"

"What you said," he says cheerfully. "I'll take it."

She frowns. "Take what?"

"Sandwich, buffalo wings," he says. "You know. What you said."

She blinks. "You mean both - both of them?"

"Both of them," he answers firmly.

She shakes her head, looking amused again. "Whatever you say," she says, making a note on her little notepad. "Would you like anything else with that?"

…Crap.

0000

Curly fries are the _shit_, Not-a-Zombie (aka Sam Jackson) decides. And if curly fries are the shit, then barbecue sauce is definitely… okay, not going there.

Still. Curly fries are good.

"Fucking delicious," someone says in the booth behind him, and he can't see them but he's pretty sure they're agreeing with him.

Beth, the gorgeous, generous, let-me-go-order-you-an-extra-plate hot little number from before, walks up to Sam's booth and smiles prettily. "Enjoyed yourself?"

"Just a little," he answers, flashing her a contented grin.

She raises an eyebrow, gaze passing over the ravages he left of his lunch, the conquered wings and the newly-clean tub of sauce. "Wow. That... that has to be some sort of talent."

"Well, you know," he says. "First meal of the day," life, "and all that."

She gives him a chiding look. "You're going to regret that. Your stomach's probably about to explode."

"Oh no," he's quick to reassure her, patting his belly. "Trust me, plenty more room here."

Beth laughs, shaking her head, and takes out her writing pad because she's a doll. "Well then, let's work on that then, shall we? Anything else you might like?" she asks, pushing an auburn strand behind her ear. "Coffee, dessert maybe?"

Oh God. "What do you have?"

"Chocolate mousse, fruit bowl, strawberry shortcake... but you don't want any of those."

It's his turn to look amused. "I don't?"

Her eyes twinkle. "Not today, you don't. Today's a good day for homemade apple pie," she says, then pauses. "Although seeing how you're... that it's pretty hot out today, well, you might want to go with the sundae."

A nice way of saying he's sweatier than a pig. "Hmm," he says.

After just a moment of waiting – jeeze, she's getting used to him – she hints, "The sundae's pretty popular."

"I'll get that, then," Sam Jackson says immediately, relieved, and she nods before disappearing to the kitchen.

Although… this _is _his first meal.

"Hey, Beth?" he calls out, and when he sees her poke out her head through the door, he flashes a grin. "Bring on the pie!"

There's a loud clatter from behind him. He ignores it - although seriously people, clumsy - and just waits patiently for the rest of his meal.

It'll probably be awhile, but then, there are worse ways to spend the first day of your life.

So. Sam Jackson, huh? He considers the name from all angles, decides that he likes it. It's a good, forgettable name, and it'll let him blend in with all the normal not-previously-dead people. Plus there's just the way it rolls off the tongue. The only thing left is to decide whether he'd rather think of himself as Jackson or Sam, because he likes Sam but going by your last name's kinda cool.

It's a pleasant kind of decision to make.

"Is this supposed to be _funny_?"

He jumps and looks back to the seat across from him, frowning when he sees that some scowly guy with hair has settled himself in it.

"Uh…" Jesus, the guy's tall. "…No?"

"What are you? Shape shifter? Revenant?"

He blinks. "Reve-what?"

Scowly sweeps Sam's dishes off the table, resulting in a large and somewhat plastic clang. He looks furious, barely able to speak. "How _dare_ you," he snarls, half-standing, nostrils flaring.

"Hey!" Sam protests, picking up the plates. Poor Beth is not going to like him after seeing this mess. "Dude, trying to eat lunch here!" Never mind that he is practically done, but he's pretty sure this is kinda rude.

"Your lunch can wait," the guy growls, looking dangerous and a little constipated, as if only the fact they're in a public place is preventing him from skewering the other man on the spot. "Why do you look like him?"

Sam fidgets uncomfortably. It's probably too much to hope that this is just a hey-you-look-just-like-the-guy-from-my-favorite-soap! kind of deal. "Like who?"

Angry green eyes narrow. "My brother."

He flashes his teeth. "Well, I guess I just have -"

"My _dead _brother."

_Fuck_.

"Listen, ah…" Scowly just glowers at him, making Sam wince. "…You. This is gonna sound a little weird, okay, but you gotta believe me when I say I'm not crazy." Not unless this entire day is a freaking hallucination.

...Which, considering this is the only day Sam Jackson remembers, could lead to some very interesting metaphysical questions.

Scowly doesn't move, although his forehead wrinkles. He's not killing him on the spot, though, so Sam takes it as a good sign.

"So, uh, I woke up this morning," Scowly gives him this deadpan look as if to say 'and what does that have to do with me killing you dead?', so he quickly adds, "inside a grave."

...Yeah, that sounds totally normal.

"It was a couple of miles north of here," he rushes on, as if that might make it better somehow. "Pretty out of the way place."

He stops and waits for a second, but somehow Scowly's not laughing at him – or impaling him with a fork, for that matter. Which, taking into account how incredibly nuts Sam sounds, might actually mean that Scowly's the crazy one. Who's crazier, after all, the madman or the guy who believes him?

Again, things to think about _later_.

Still, choosing to be encouraged by the current nonviolence, he puts his hands on the table, trying the best he can to convey sincerity and also _pleasedon'tkillme_. "Look, I've got no idea who your brother is, but uh, I think I might be him. Just, y'know, alive."

"That's impossible," Scowly frowns.

He sighs, slumps back. "I knew you'd say that."

"You- my brother's been dead for months. Even if he did get... raised from the dead, his body would -" Scowly stops, looking like he suddenly got a bad case of indigestion.

"Oh. Maybe I'm not him, then," he says, a little disappointed, because even if Scowly is a scary sonuvabitch, it'd be pretty cool to run into his brother – anyone who knows him, really – after just a morning of wandering around aimlessly (even if it _was_ a bitch of a wander).

Though what did he expect, really? It's probably more of a coincidence than he can hope for.

Scowly appears surprised, as if that had been the last thing in the world he'd expected Sam to say, but just then Beth comes in. "Here's your sundae," she says with a smile, putting down a bowl, "and here," she puts down another one, "is your apple pie."

Sam breathes through his nose, thinks he might die from sheer pleasure. "You're a goddess, sweetheart," he says, meaning it more than he's ever meant anything, ever. Which, all right, maybe doesn't mean much, but you know, that kind of thinking gets old after a while.

"You're welcome," she beams back, then glances at Scowly. "Oh, you two know each other?"

Scowly sends her a flat look. "Yeah," he replies shortly.

"Where's the girl you were here with?" she asks, obviously trying to make polite conversation, and Sam mentally gives her points for not running away screaming - because God knows if Scowly was glaring at _him_ like that he'd be very seriously contemplating the option.

Strangely enough, Scowly shoots Sam an almost nervous glance before turning back to Beth. "She had to leave," he says coolly, clearly too much of an asshole to appreciate the effort.

"Oh," her smile looks forced, but when the waitress turns back to Sam the expression turns genuine. "Well, in any case, here's the receipt. Enjoy your dessert." She waits for a bit, then says in this super-casual way, "Hope to see you around, Sam."

He grins at her through a mouth full of ice cream – he's willing to bet his stolen money that there's a phone number on the back of the check. It really is too bad he doesn't have a phone. "Hope to be around," he replies playfully after a swallow, and when she leaves the booth he catches her grinning.

There's this little almost-grunt right then, and reminded of his unfriendly companion, Sam turns with a sigh, only to see Scowly look like he's just gotten hit by a truck and isn't quite sure whether to call AAA or an ambulance.

"'Sam'?" the guy repeats, voice oddly strangled.

Oh. Right. "My name," he explains, not a little proudly. "Well, my made-up name. Thought of it on the spot." He grins. "Sam Jackson, at your service."

For a long moment, the other man just stares at him like he has no idea what to make of Sam.

"Dude," he says in annoyance, after a minute rolls by and the stare still hasn't let up. "Anyone ever teach you that it's rude to stare?"

Scowly starts, but then he curls his lips and shuts his eyes and makes this noise that could maybe pass for a laugh, if you weren't too picky about what laughs should sound like.

"Only you would name yourself after Samuel Jackson," Scowly says, oddly hoarse, slumping back on the seat and covering his eyes with a huge hand.

"Hey, he's cool," Sam says defensively, helping himself to another spoon of ice cream. Then the metaphorical lightbulb lights up over his head, and his eyes snap up away from the sundae. "Wait, does that mean you believe me?"

Scowly eyes him for a minute, expression unreadable, then stands. "Get up. We're going."

Uh. Okay. "Where?"

"A friend."

Geeze, that was all nice and specific, Sam thinks. But it isn't like he has anywhere to go, really, so he just sighs resignedly.

"Can I at least finish the pie first?"

* * *

_A/N: I confess that my sole reason for starting this venture was just to put the line 'holy shit, I think I'm a zombie' in proper_ _context_.


	2. maybe you're still here

**The obeisance of memory  
**

* * *

_A/N: Thanks everyone for the kind reviews! This has been a lot of fun to write, I'll tell you._

* * *

It looks like a shiny metal death trap.

He _totally_ doesn't care.

"Dude, that is awesome!"

"Yeah, actually-"

"You have a _car_!" He opens the door and climbs in the passenger seat, settling in with a great relieved sigh. "Ack, this is - this is friggin' amazing, do you realize how many miles I've had to walk just to _get _to this crappy town? I think I've got blisters on my _blisters_."

Scowly gets in from his side, his movements all stilted and jerky as if a very inept puppet master is pulling his strings. "Yeah," he mutters, sounding just on the verge of bitterness, and twists to face the back seat. "It's… wonderful. _Christo_."

"Gesundheit." Sam leans back into his seat and stares out the windshield, entwining his hands behind his head, enjoying the moment. This is probably the cleanest place he'd been in since, well, ever. Scowly runs a tight ship.

Speaking of which, Sam thinks he should probably find out what the guy's name actually is. It could get a little awkward calling him Scowly to his face.

He turns his head, says, "So hey, I just realized -" and promptly receives water to the face.

He blinks, recovers enough to send a glare at his supposed brother. "What - what the everloving crap, man," he sputters, sitting up and wiping his forehead with a dirty sleeve, "What the heck was that for?"

For a moment, Scowly looks at a loss, silver bottle almost engulfed in his paw of a hand as he just gapes at Sam, but soon enough he recovers and just shrugs innocently. "You're pretty filthy."

It's tempting, really, to get mad, say 'screw you' to Scowly and get out to go his merry wandering way, but those sad, too-earnest eyes must be working a spell on him or something, because he can't seem to rally up anything greater than mild annoyance.

And it's only water, anyway.

"Yeah, well, next time just tell me I need a shower," Sam grumbles. He pauses to think, then comments, "Not to mention, dude, you might want to watch out for your car. It'd be a real shame to ruin this leather interior."

It only lasts a second, but strangely enough, that's the first smile he gets out of the guy.

…It looks pretty good.

0000

"So," he says a little while later, once he gets bored counting streetlights. Scowly's not a chatterbox, that's for sure. "You and me. Brothers, huh?"

The guy's humongous hands (because they are, okay, they're freaking fucking _huge_) tighten on the steering wheel, but his reply is calm and level. "If you're who you say you are."

"Yeah, about that. A name would be nice."

Scowly glances at him briefly.

Sam waits a moment. When nothing comes, he rolls his eyes in exasperation. "Well?"

There's a long pause.

And then, finally, quietly: "Dean."

He repeats it in his head, but nothing clicks, there's no mental cry of bingo or eureka or even _yahtzee_.

"Ah," he says, feeling stupid. "Is that, uh, yours or mine?"

The large knuckles whiten again, but Scowly's face doesn't betray a thing. "Yours. I'm…" his throat works, "I'm Sam."

Sam - _Dean_ winces inwardly. Talk about awkward, no wonder the guy'd looked so stunned. Add to that the shock of seeing his dead brother walking around – and, yeah, can't blame the guy for being somewhat seriously messed up.

At the same time, he can't really bring himself to feel all that much sympathy because heck, he_ knows his name._ His actual _real _name_. _It even sounds real and everything.

And fuck, but it feels _good_.

"So," _Dean_ says cheerfully, "we got any family? I mean, I get the feeling we're not exactly the Brady Bunch, here, but is there anyone else? Do I have a family holed up somewhere? Where're our parents at?"

"Everyone's dead," Sam – the real Sam, that is – replies shortly.

And that pretty much kills _that_ conversation.

0000

He falls asleep.

Not polite, maybe, but not surprising either – he's kind of had a big day, what with rising from the dead and walking a bajillion miles and all. It's nice and black and quiet wherever he is, and there aren't any dreams; at least, none that he can remember when he wakes up.

...But maybe that's because he's got other things on his mind.

"_Ow_!"

His companion shoots him a fleeting glance before turning back apathetically to the road. "You okay?"

Dean stares at his wrist, where a scratch is already starting to scab over. "Think I hit my hand on something," he answers, somewhat weirded out. First the grave thing, then the sound thing, and now mysterious injuries out of nowhere?

What the hell is going on here?

"You should be more careful."

Real helpful, Sam. He gives his best glare, but Sam doesn't seem to notice or care. He settles for a mumbled _fuck you_, thinks for a bit and then adds a_ Sammy_ just for kicks_._

"It's Sam," his maybe-brother says flatly, sounding dangerous and distinctly un-brotherly.

"Whatever," he says back, too annoyed to be intimidated.

Still, he makes a mental note. _Sam, not Sammy_.

0000

Barely ten minutes pass then before Dean gets seriously thirsty. Not like hmm-I-could-go-for-a-soda thirsty, but the full out my-tongue-is-sandpaper-and-I-need-water-to-live sensation of dehydration, which in hindsight, might have been prevented by ordering more water instead of just more orders of dessert.

He debates for a few more minutes whether or not to chance it, but finally decides that being sca-_wary_ of Sam's seven feet of muscle is not really a good reason to suffer, especially considering that killing Dean would involve taking his hands off the wheel and Sam's been a pretty law-abiding driver so far, aside from the speeding. "Hey," he says, trying for casual, "where'd you put that water bottle?"

Sam shoots him an unreadable look. "There's one behind your seat," he answers, somewhat curtly.

He crinkles his forehead. "What happened to that other one you had? You know, the one you watered me with?"

Sam opens his mouth as if to answer, but then closes it just as quickly. His shoulders lift in a shrug.

Muttering under his breath, Dean snaps open his seatbelt and dives his upper body between the seats trying to find the goddamn thing. When his hands finally wrap around round plastic, he straightens, twists off the cap and takes a pull, gulping down what must be half of its contents in a single swallow, not bothering to be delicate or quiet about it because seriously, the guy's pissy act is starting to get on his nerves. He gets that seeing a dead brother can come as a surprise, he really does, but would it actually _kill_ the giant ass to be friendly?

He's not sure what he'd been aiming for, but as they stop for a red light Sam proves that he can, in fact, acknowledge Dean's existence, and does so by staring his eyes out.

…Which, okay. Creepy.

_Whatever._ Deciding to give His Royal Bitchiness a taste of his own medicine, Dean pointedly ignores the intense sorta-green glower and continues to drink obnoxiously loud. When he finishes, he wipes his mouth with a sleeve, and only then does he return Sam's scrutiny.

"You mind?" he asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Your… hands," the other man says haltingly, and it's only when Dean follows his gaze that he realizes that Sam had been looking at them all along.

He glances at the hand holding the bottle and frowns, not understanding where Sam's coming from. He's pretty sure he has all five digits, but he wiggles them all to make sure. "What about them?"

"They're…" Mister can't-give-a-straight-answer falters uncertainly, almost sounding amazed.

Dean follows his gaze again, and suddenly realizes what's going on. His fingernails have collected dirt and blood, his knuckles are torn to the bone, and his hands still look more brown than not.

He blinks incredulously. This has to be a joke.

...The OCD asshole is actually mad at him for getting his precious car _dirty_.

"Sorry if I'm not manicured enough for you, princess," he bites out angrily, because he's had a long day and he's _had _it with Sam. "Digging through six feet of dirt ain't exactly easy, all right?"

"I…" Sam seems to be finding it hard to speak. "I guess so," he says quietly, and when he looks back to the road, there's a wrinkle between his eyebrows that hadn't been there before.

0000

Two hours later, Sam still doesn't seem to be planning on stopping for anything but a gas station anytime soon. Dean shifts in his seat for a while before finally abandoning his sorry attempt at giving Sam the silent treatment. "Dude, the guy live in Canada or something? Where the heck are you driving us?"

"South Dakota."

He whistles as his mind somehow informs him just how long it takes to get there from Indiana. He has no idea if any of that's true, but he figures it can't be too off. "Must be a pretty good friend you got there, if you're gonna drive us all that way."

"Yeah," Sam answers tightly, not elaborating.

"Think he can…" he trails off, unsure how to finish – what, help Dean with his not-dead problem? Jeeze, he doesn't even have a clue what they're aiming for, here.

Sam pulls a shoulder in another wordless shrug.

…Dean's really starting to get tired of those.

0000

Another hour passes.

It might be just Dean, but the silence in the car feels kind of awkward. Awkward in ways even Radiohead can't cover for. Ways especially Radiohead can't cover for.

He fidgets in his seat as Sam glowers ahead at the road, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

In the end, he decides to just come out with it. Clear the air and all.

"By the way. Sam." The name glides off his tongue like he's already said it a million times, and for the first time it crosses his mind that maybe he has. "I just… I want to say thanks."

Dean can practically feel the puzzlement radiate from the other man. "What for?" Sam asks, for once not sounding cold or surly or murderous.

"Well, uh." Why does his face feels like it's burning? He clears his throat. "You didn't have to do this. Putting up with me and crap. I mean, you don't even know if I'm really your brother, and even if I was, I'm guessing I... wasn't exactly one of your top five people to be stuck in a car with? So uh… yeah, thanks. I appreciate it."

He steals a glance at Sam – his brother, _damn_ – but if anything, the guy looks even more upset.

Oh, what _now?_

"Why –" Sam swallows, stares ahead. "What makes you think we didn't get along?"

Dean shrugs (_ha, see, I can do that too_). "Well for one," he starts, counting off on his fingers, "you didn't look too happy to see me alive and kicking. Still don't, actually. Then there's me being buried in the middle of nowhere, not exactly wearing my Sunday best, in what must be – no offense, dude – what is probably the shittiest grave in the history of graves. I mean come on, man, I didn't even get a headstone with my name on it – which would have been really helpful, by the way – let alone some corny lines about how I was an awesome brother and all. So yeah, doesn't exactly take a genius to connect the dots."

"It wasn't… it wasn't like that," the other man whispers after a moment, with obvious effort. "It wasn't supposed to be permanent. Just… just for a while, until…"

He can't help but feel bad –like, he isn't about to lie (his grave _was _crappy), but it hadn't been his intention to make Sam feel guilty. Not to mention that it probably isn't very polite (or tactful for that matter) to come back from the dead and complain about his funeral arrangements. That's more vengeful ghost territory, and his butt's way too numb to be anything like incorporeal.

"Look, don't worry about it. So we weren't the Brady Bunch, big fucking deal. I'm sure you had more important things to take care of, plus it's not like there's any point wasting money on dead people anyway." He lets out a breath, lounges back on his seat in an attempt to get comfortable. "All I'm saying is that I appreciate what you're doing here, that's all. Most people would probably freak out or pick up a gun if they saw a zombie ordering apple pie, not take it out for a drive."

"Dean –" Sam says thickly, but that's it, that's all he says. All of a sudden, Dean's grouchy companion is staring at the road as if trying to set it on fire, and somehow at the same time also manages to look all of eight years old. There's barely a foot between them, but for all intents and purposes, Sam might as well be a million miles away.

Dean doesn't really get what's happening, if the guy just can't take a thank you or if there's some other issue at work here, but he decides to see it as a good thing that Sam's so focused on the road, seeing as how Sam's also the one driving. Dean doesn't really care to have his life end in a car accident less than twenty-four hours after it's begun - but then again, that'd be ironic, and his life so far has all the makings of a big cosmic joke.

Still, it would kind of suck to have Sam dragged down with him. When he's not being a giant huffy ass, Dean thinks he might even like the guy.

0000

The world's pretty.

They pass by cows and pastures and lakes, and Dean just eats it all up, watching with wide eyes as the blue sky turns bluer and the sun dives across to the horizon as if racing with the clouds. Again he muses on what a decidedly odd circumstance this non-memory deal is, because while he knows what night is and can, in theory anyway, tell apart stalks of corn and wheat, it feels as if he's never seen _anything_ before, as if each experience is the very first. It's kind of a cool feeling, in a way, to appreciate the world like a kid probably does, to know what things are supposed to be like, but then again, not really.

…It's also a little lonely.

"You're not a zombie, you know," Sam says abruptly, gaze still fixed on the road.

It takes a second to process that Sam is talking to him.

"Oh, I know," he replies airily. "This face is way too pretty to be undead."

Sam doesn't answer, but there's a little curve to his lips that could almost be considered a smile, and his green - hazel? - eyes crinkle with real amusement. Dean would have said something about it, but for some reason he doesn't and instead just grins out the window.

The silence between them is suddenly much more comfortable, after that.

* * *

_Author's note: Okay, so that's chapter 2. Chapter 3 is going to be much more emotionally charged, and it's going to come relatively soon (relatively for me, anyway)._

_On another note, do you guys think I'm keeping them in character? I have to admit, trying to keep Dean as Dean yet not have him know a thing is a challenge. And this is my own interpretation of the Sam Dean meets in 4x01, so I don't know how accurate I'm being. _

_I gotta say, though, I really love Sam testing Dean's humanity AFTER he lets him into the Impala. Oh, Sam, baby, not!amnesiac!Dean would NOT be happy with you._

_This fic is also my first time actually writing real Winchester banter (well, kind of real anyway) so if you have any comments about that, please tell me. I find it pretty addicting, though, so hopefully I'm doing an okay job._

_If you enjoyed, please review!_


	3. deep in the stillness

**The obeisance of memory**

* * *

_A/N: Guys, you won't believe the hard time I had putting up this chapter. I came back from lunch on Friday to see 20 error messages on my computer screen, and my antivirus tells me I have at least 13 viruses in my system. I take it to my college IT, who tell me to take it to this guy down the street (and okay, this is geeky, but I totally liked him mostly because he's Bobby with more hair and more of a twang). So I leave my laptop with this guy, trusting he'll fix it and that hopefully it won't cost too much. After an hour, I come back, and he says "ma'am, I've seen many computers in mah time, but yours...? Yours is the_ worst_." _

_10,000 viruses and counting, ladies and gentlemen. I am not kidding you. The virus I got infected EVERY SINGLE ONE OF MY FILES. Apparently I'm going to have my name written up on the company's whiteboard in a place of honor. There will be a star next to my name, and Sean (aka Bobby) will always remember me as his Mount Everest._

_Ahem. Anyway, my old computer is kind of crap now, and I've been computerless for the better part of the week - that's why I couldn't reply to your AWESOME reviews (I adore each and every one of you, I swear). I thought about doing the reply thing now, but the guy did manage to rescue most of the documents precious to me - including this story - and I figured you guys would probably appreciate an update better. So now I have a new computer which is shiny and works a heck of a lot faster and doesn't have keys falling off, and you guys get a new chapter. Win/win!_

_...Rant over. Please enjoy._

* * *

In his one day or so of living, Dean hasn't seen very many houses. Still, he thinks he has a pretty good idea of what one should look like.

…This isn't it.

"Your friend lives in a _junkyard_?"

Sam rolls his eyes as he pulls them up to the dingy thing. "He fixes cars."

_Like I can't tell,_ he thinks wryly, looking at the heaps of cars and things that might have at one point been cars that surround the property like a moat around a castle, except instead of sharks or piranhas there's just this one Rottweiller on a leash he could swear is giving him the old stinkeye.

"Looks like he brings his work home with him," he says, trying to be gracious about the fact that apparently Sam's friend has decided to take a page from the Unabomber's book and live in the middle of fucking nowhere. And seriously, just what _is_ it with Sam and dumping Dean in the most backwater, isolated shitholes in the continental US?

If not for the fact that the guy is his brother, he might be a little creeped out.

"It's beyond me where he gets it from though," he adds after a moment, because Sam's being quiet and introspective and looking out the window again, and if there's anything he'd learned over the past nine-plus hours, it's that there's nothing that perks Sam up - okay, irritates Sam like hell - as much as mindless chatter. "This place ain't exactly the hottest thing in town. Actually, I'm not even sure there _is _a town."

The other man just gives him this dry, squinty look that seems almost too at home on his long face, as if Sam's had to deal with people like Dean for far longer than any sane person would willingly handle. Dean looks away uneasily, reminds himself that no one can read minds, and if Sam could he would have definitely said something about that dream with the burlesque dancers and the duck.

"Bobby likes his privacy," Sam replies, finally giving the key a twist. The engine turns off with a last protesting growl, the lights shut off, and suddenly they're enveloped in comfortable darkness and everything's just nice and quiet and the only sound is Sam's breathing and his own.

The slam of the door jolts Dean awake before he can even dare fantasize about nodding off, and he grumblingly follows Sam out of the car. Once outside, he stretches, groans – half a day of driving is a lot harder than it sounds, and he's aching in places that he hadn't even known existed. He bends backwards, wincing at the cracks issuing from his spine, and takes the chance to take in the gloomy house as he does so.

"I would too, if I was an antisocial psychopath," he mutters under his breath, because if Theodore Kaczynski ran a car business, this'd be it.

As if it had somehow heard the slight to its owner, the dog growls at Dean, teeth bared, and even as he jumps and shoots it a dirty look Dean quickens his strides to catch up to the taller man.

…He figures that at least with Sam there's a better chance of not getting bitten.

As he reaches the final stair, Sam stands still in front of the door, hands limp and useless at his sides, fingers curling. He shoots Dean this almost nervous, wide-eyed look, like he isn't at all sure what he's doing here and Dean's somehow got all the answers.

Except Dean doesn't have any, and for the first time, he's actually starting to feel a little resentful about it.

Even while he watches, though, Sam straightens his shoulders and raises his chin determinedly, as if he's getting ready for a fight rather than just visiting an old friend. Dean tries to figure out what he's thinking, but he gives up quickly when it proves to be, yet again, a somewhat futile effort.

"Better stand back," the man who calls himself his brother says at last, giving Dean a little push with his arm. "Bobby's gonna be a little surprised to see you."

0000

'A little surprised' doesn't quite cover it, Dean thinks as he watches the sharp, beady eyes study them both, flashes of anger and horror and all that other good stuff zipping through them like there's a fire sale and everything must go, go, go.

But still, other than that Sam's friend is actually very stoic, he observes (a little disappointedly – he'd been hoping for a much more interesting reaction). Sure, the guy's been staring at him for a couple of awkward seconds now, but that seems to be the usual drill for the people Dean meets, and aside from the eyes there's really nothing on the fuzzy pink face that says that Bobby is seeing a dead man.

Which either means that Bobby is a real cool customer, or…or that maybe, he just doesn't know Dean's dead.

It makes sense – for all he knows Sam had never updated the guy on the haps, and after all, Sam hasn't mentioned anything about Bobby being _his_ friend. Or maybe Bobby's just never met the before-death version of Dean to begin with, and he's actually just glaring because he's wondering what the hell a stranger is doing in his doozy of a junkyard.

The old man steps out of his house, fist still tight on the doorknob as if even now contemplating the merits of slamming the door in their faces. "Dean?"

…Or maybe not.

"Yo," he says and gives little wave, trying to appear friendly and charming because he's just spent more than ten hours sitting on his butt trying to reach this guy and it would really _suck _to be turned away now.

Bobby stares at him for another second or two. Then, before Dean can even blink, the shorter man darts between him and Sam and shoves Sam against the wall.

Like, _hard_.

"You fucking, dumbass _Winchester_," the man spits, hands on Gigantor's collar. The way the words shoot out from his mouth, one might think that there's no greater insult in the world. "What did you do?" Another shove. "Sam, what the _hell _did you _do_?"

If Dean had expected them to come into blows – and yeah, he did – he was disappointed, though, because all Sam does is issue this choked noise and look all doe-eyed and gaspy. And it might just be Dean's imagination, but for a moment there, his gigantic tree of a companion almost looks _small_.

"Nothing, Bobby," Sam says distraughtly, urgently. He doesn't do a thing about Bobby's hands. "I didn't do anything, I _swear_. It wasn't me!"

Piercing eyes assess and judge, but finally Bobby loosens his grip and Dean lets out the breath he's been holding – it's not like he was worried for Sam or anything, but refereeing a fight isn't on his list of things to do.

One hairy hand runs down the man's scraggly face while the other one reaches to the wall for unneeded support. "Damn it, Sam," he mutters roughly, scrubbing his chin, sounding tired and old. "_Damn_ it."

Dean's getting this vague feeling like he's missing something. And call him paranoid, but he can't help but notice that the older man is steadfastly keeping his distance, avoiding him carefully as if he might strike out at any time. Which is slightly ridiculous, seeing as how Bobby's the one who has a pistol tucked in a holster.

"I don't know," Sam answers an unspoken question, not backing away like a sensible person but actually moving closer, almost entreatingly. "Whatever it was, it happened today. Bobby, he says he… he says he woke up in Dean's _grave_."

"In his…?"

Sam nods.

Bobby turns back to them, that tired expression still on his face, but he looks more regretful now, comforting, and for some reason Dean feels a chill run down his spine.

"That doesn't make sense, Sam. Pulling off that kind of stunt takes a lotta mojo, and I didn't hear a thing – everything's been quiet." He frowns in thought, and a deep furrow settles between his eyebrows. "…Maybe too quiet," he says slowly, almost conceding. His eyes dart up to Sam's. "How'd you find him?"

"I was…" Sam clears his throat. "I was on a case, followed a bunch… followed it from Missouri to Pontiac. I'd just gone to get some breakfast before hitting the road, and – and he was _there_." For the first time since Dean's met him, the human iceberg actually looks like he might be emoting. "_God_, Bobby, it was him, and I almost left without even knowing, and he was just there -"

Dean catches Bobby shooting him a suspicious glance, and he sends back a frown of his own. He has no idea what's going on here, but as far as he can tell he's missing some major backstory. It's like watching a Mexican soap opera after the commercial break, with all the emotions and enthusiastic hand gestures and none of the subtitles.

"Sam," Bobby starts cautiously, "it's been four months. Didn't it cross your mind that-"

The younger man interrupts impatiently. "Of course it did, Bobby, of _course _it crossed my mind! But…" he looks down for an instant, face crumpling. "It.. it was him, Bobby, right there. I couldn't, in case, couldn't if -" he takes a steadying breath. "So I thought I thought I'd bring him over. See what you make of it."

Bobby frowns, opens his mouth –

"And before you say anything," Sam hurries, "I _checked_, okay? He didn't even flinch when I said _christo_, holy water didn't do a thing, I nicked him with silver and he was completely fine, and I've driven with him all the way from Indiana but he hasn't pulled anything. And it… it _feels_ like him, Bobby. Maybe – you don't think maybe -"

"Waitwaitwait, hold on a sec." The two twist to face him in surprise, clearly having forgotten that the person they've been talking about was actually there. "Did I hear right? You _nicked _me?" he repeats incredulously, voice rising, ignoring Bobby's lifted eyebrow as his eyes latch onto Sam's. "As in, with a _knife_?"

The barely-there twinge of discomfort on Sam's face is answer enough.

"Oh, shit," he says slowly, blankly, and he obviously can't see himself, but he's pretty sure betrayal is making itself clear on his face. There are other emotions roiling under the surface too, fighting to come up for air, but that's really about the only one he can focus on at the moment.

Bobby tosses him a look which seems to suggest that Dean is a complete moron. "What did you expect, boy? You pop out of the Pit and think no one will take precautions?"

"Wait, Bobby," Sam interjects hurriedly, "he doesn't remember -"

"I knew it. I fucking _knew_ it." His eyes sting, and he angrily swipes at them with a sleeve, stumbling as he backs away. Suddenly, he just wants _out_ of here. "If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is, right? Fuck. I'm a fucking _idiot_."

Sam and Bobby look confused for a moment, but then realization makes its way to Sam's face. "Dean," he says gently – but in a sinister kind of way, okay? – stepping closer and holding out his hands as if threatening to cage the other man inside them.

He flinches, puts his own hand up as a barrier between him and Sam. "Oh no, you stay right there, you sick freak," he warns shakily, wishing he had a gun or something remotely threatening in his hands. "I _trusted_ you. God help me, I thought you were for real." He takes another step back. "I mean yeah, I thought you were a scary fucker, but I thought you were, I didn't actually think you'd – and shit, 'holy water'? What the _fuck_?"

"It's not how it sounds," Sam tries to explain, but he interrupts before Sam can get any further.

"Oh really?" he cries angrily, opening his arms wide as if to tell Sam to take a shot – or maybe another _stab with a fricking knife_. "So you mean this _isn't_ like a sick take on the Exorcist? You're not actually some kind of psycho killer?"

"Dean-"

"Is this your M.O.? You find some gullible nutcase in Nowhere, Nowheresville and lug him to your buddy here so you guys can, what, _eat _him or something?"

"No-"

"-Because good job, you actually had me going there with the sad puppy eyes and the whole 'I'm not sure if I can trust you' thing. But it was really the other way around, wasn't it? Of course you were never gonna trust me, you were just trying to get _me_ to trust _you_." He laughs suddenly, and even he thinks he sounds unhinged. "You, my brother? Right. What a joke."

Sam swallows, eyes glittering under the blend of warm yellow light from the inside of the house and the cool glow of the rising moon. "No, you – you _are_, Dean, you're my brother-"

"Don't call me that," he shouts, feeling disgusted and scared and just - _violated_. "Don't you even fucking _look _at me like that! I might not know who the fuck I am, _Sammy_, but I sure as hell can tell when I'm being played!"

"Oh yeah?" Bobby puts in, and for the first time the man actually looks Dean directly in the eye. He walks until he's right in front of Dean, face as hard and unyielding as a frickin' rock, looking a hell of a lot like his Godzilla of a puppy. "I'd say you're making it pretty obvious here that you don't know anything."

"Don't you start, old man," he snarls, even as he backs away warily. There's no way he can take on both men at once – he isn't even sure he can take one – but Bobby definitely doesn't look like a marathon runner, and maybe he can outrun Sam's long legs with a head start. Maybe. "I'll fight if I have to."

"Boy," the shorter man says cautiously, keeping his moves slow, making a weird juxtaposition with the frozen Sam he's standing next to. "You need to cool it. You're not thinking clearly."

"No? _I_ think I am," he shoots back fiercely. "_I_ think I wasn't thinking clearly when I hitched a ride with fucking _Sasquatch_ over there," he points at Sam, who only looks even more crushed. Somehow, though, he really can't find it in himself to care. He's been _such _an idiot.

All of a sudden, he has to squash a laugh.

Because this? This is _hilarious_. This? This is comedy _gold_. He had one day, just _one_ day to not mess up, and now he's going to die and it's not even _midnight_. He's the saddest Cinderella ever, and son of a bitch, but it takes some fucking _talent _to not even make it one day in the world.

And the best thing about it is that he's only fucked up one day - just _one._ Other people can fuck up – do it all the time, in fact – but this is the only day he has, and apparently the only day he's ever gonna get, so it means that he fucked up on such a bigger scale than everyone else in the world that it's not even _funny_.

...Except it _so_ is. Fuck. He should have had a fucking _steak _for breakfast.

The urge to laugh comes back up his throat, but he muffles it and instead just lets out a sarcastic snort that he hopes sounds sane. "I gotta hand it to you, Sam, I had it coming. I was so _stupid_. I mean, what kind of whackjob believes everything a complete stranger tells them? Let alone get in their car?"

"The better question is," Bobby replies right back, "what kind of whackjob wakes up in a grave and then thinks holy water and demons is crazy talk?"

Blink.

"…What?"

"You were raised from the _dead_, boy," the guy says, sounding exasperated. "You think that's normal?"

"Well, no…" he flounders, then remembers the reason for all this and emphatically points at Sam again. "…He _stabbed _me!"

"Did he now?" Bobby remarks, raising an eyebrow and making a show of looking him over. "I don't exactly see you bleeding to death."

The scratch on his hand suddenly makes itself known, and he glowers at the man, not enjoying being ridiculed by someone who's in all likelihood a psychopath. "It's not – he _stabbed_ me!" he stresses insistently, doesn't understand what's so difficult to understand. Is he not speaking English or something? "With a _knife_! In what world is that okay?"

"Silver knife," Bobby points out, as if that's supposed to mean something, or somehow make it all dandy.

It definitely doesn't do either.

"Wow. Snazzy," he remarks brightly, backing away just a little more, and he likes to think that the sarcasm dripping from his lips isn't as high and frightened as it sounds, but who the hell knows. "Try to get me with a gold one next time. I think it goes better with my skin tone."

The man sighs, gives him another you're-an-idiot look. "It repels shapeshifters, smartass. Sam was making sure you were human."

He nods solemnly. "Right, I see. Now me, I thought for sure I was a rabbit, but now that I'm stabbed everything's so _clear_ – "

"For_ fuck's _sake_, Dean_!" Bobby finally barks, effectively shutting him up. "For once in your life, think with your goddamn _head_! People don't just rise from the dead easy as you please! You're an abomination of nature, boy, and you're damn lucky Sam didn't shoot you on the spot, because anyone else with a lick of sense would have!"

And oh yeah, that just makes him feel _so _much better. Someone give this asshole a prize, because this is _definitely_ the way to get a guy's trust. "Is this you volunteering for the job?" he snaps back bravely. "Is that why I'm here, how you're gonna solve my undead problem? You gonna shoot me?"

The older man stares at him, then shakes his head, and if he didn't know any better he'd swear that the old guy is actually containing a laugh. "Only a Winchester would be this much trouble," he thinks he hears the guy half-grunt, half-mutter.

From the corner of his eye, he can see Sam quickly turn his head to stare at Bobby.

"No," Bobby finally answers clearly, simply, and for some reason the man sounds both relieved and resigned and… even sad, maybe. "That ain't it."

He stares. Scrunches up his face a little.

For a long moment he just breathes, heartbeat slowly returning to normal. Taking their cues from him, the two other man stay where they are, watch him think.

This guy's crazy, he understands suddenly. This guy, and Sam, they're both totally nuts.

…Then again, this is a pretty nutty world he woke up in.

"So," he ventures at last, carefully fixing his stare on the floor. "I don't think I'm a zombie."

"Haven't ruled it out," the older man says, but there's a twist to his lips that says he might be joking.

Dean nods. "Okay," he says, and clears his throat. "…Demons, huh?"

Bobby's boots shift as he relaxes his stance a little. He adjusts his baseball cap and heaves a sigh, scratching the back of his neck. "I'm not having this conversation outside," he finally declares flatly, walking over to the door and opening it invitingly.

Dean eyes him warily, but he doesn't move.

The old man rolls his eyes. "Oh, for God's sake," he grumbles under his breath, then raises his voice. "What are you gonna do, you idjit? It's the middle of the night, and town's miles away from here. You've got nowhere to run. Besides, you're gonna want to sit down for this." He massages his forehead and mutters to himself, "Hell knows I do," before he turns on his heels and walks inside, leaving the door ajar and Sam and Dean standing on his porch.

Dean watches the man disappear between bookshelves, and wavers.

"I don't know," he says hesitantly, addressing no one in particular now that Bobby's gone. For some reason, despite everything, he can't help but look at Sam.

The person who, he's starting to realize, maybe actually _is _his brother.

Sam looks… well, he kind of looks like hell. Not really in a physical way, so much, although ten hours of speeding through state lines definitely looks like it wears out a guy, the way there are bags under the green eyes and the floppy hair looks even greasier than Dean's. His shoulders are hunched over like a shield against the world, and the huge ape-like hands just hang there uselessly.

It's hard to reconcile the threatening, silent badass with this blank, broken man.

But it's his face that gets Dean in the gut. Over the drive Sam had loosened up a little, even turned up the iPod at one point, but the rough and driven guy Dean's been getting to know – getting to like, even – is nowhere to be found anywhere on these features. Hurt and vulnerability have softened the lines and contours of Sam, and instead of the stolid mask all kinds of pain and grief and hope flicker on Sam's face like some kind of old-time movie projector. It actually hurts Dean to watch, but at the same time it comes almost as a kind of a relief, sort of like when puzzle pieces are finally put into place.

And that's when it finally dawns on him that he's _sold_ on this guy. No matter what anyone tells him now, no matter what Sam does, he'll never believe otherwise.

This – _this_ is his brother.

Sam meets his eyes hollowly, but at the same time there's a fierceness to it, a joy, almost, that nearly knocks Dean clean off his feet.

He shuffles in place, doesn't have a clue where to start. He runs a hand through his hair, contemplating strategies and discarding them one by one, then gives up and decides to just improvise, screw it. "Listen, I -"

"He's a good guy," Sam says quietly, voice gentle and reassuring, and Dean thinks _wow, I must have really freaked out on him_. "You can trust him."

…Dean notices he doesn't say _us_.

He tries again. "Sam - " and again he's interrupted.

"You can call me Sammy."

Dean gapes. _Huh? _"What?"

"You. Just you." The green eyes pierce his determinedly. "And just sometimes."

For a moment Dean simply stands there, knowing that he's been offered a gift and not really sure what to do with it. Then he catches the fondness in his brother's eyes, the _understanding_, and Dean finally gets what Sam's trying to say.

He grins.

"All right, Sammy," he says. "Let's go talk about zombies."

And Sam smiles, brilliant as the sun.

0000

"...For the last time, Dean, you're _not_ a zombie."

"Yeah, whatever."

* * *

_Author's note: Haha, and so many of you thought Sam was the one due for a meltdown. Sorry to disappoint, my friends, but I do hope you enjoyed having a Dean spazfest instead. There _was _plenty of delicious Sam angst, though, as well as some Bobby (who was okay, right? Right?). Please give me feedback if you have time - I'm trying to keep it as realistic and true-to-character as possible, but obviously, this is slightly difficult since we're talking about amnesia and previously-dead people._

_And lastly. Guys, I got a problem. I could end this fic here, because like this everything's for the most part all wrapped up (I mean, the amnesia thing is left a mystery, but whatevs) and leaves you with a warm fuzzy feeling (I hope)... or I could keep going and try my hand at a somewhat longer SPN fic. I do have some vague ideas, but if you guys think it'll ruin the story, I can definitely just leave it like this._

_So. Your call..._

_As always, thanks for reading!_


	4. I can hear you speak

**The obeisance of memory**

* * *

_A/N: Guess how many times my new computer's crashed on me? That's right, my NEW computer. Plus, I've had four tests in the past week. WEEK.  
_

_...Sometimes, I really hate my life._

_PS: as of 11 pm, I've edited the heck out of this. Sorry for giving you such a raw update! Things should flow better now, hopefully.  
_

* * *

"…Well?"

Dean blinks.

"Oh, sorry," he says blankly, and quickly takes the first gulp out of his now-warm beer. To clear his throat, you know. "Say, guys," he frowns, "this is kinda watery for a dark lager, isn't it? You sure it's a Guinness?" he peers at the label suspiciously. "Tastes more like a Bud Light to me."

Sam looks over at Bobby, raises an eyebrow, rolls his eyes.

Bobby nods in reply, makes a face, shrugs his shoulders.

And Dean, meanwhile, thinks _holy fuck, people, it's just beer._

It's been getting on his nerves - the two hunters have been sending secret silent messages to each other ever since they'd all sat down in Bobby's living room so he could get the _it's really, really out there _speech, and it's remarkable, really, how a conversation that should have theoretically been so informative and enlightening is giving him the distinct sense that he's really not getting the entire picture.

"And how would you know what a Bud Light tastes like, if you don't mind me askin'?" Bobby says, finally looks back at Dean. "Thought you didn't remember anything."

He shrugs his shoulders. "Beats me," he says truthfully, and takes another pull from the bottle because hey, beer is beer. "I just do." It's as instinctual as sitting or scratching his head or knowing he needs water when he's thirsty. The knowledge is just _there_ – not exactly jumping to get his attention, but slithering its way into his thoughts without him even realizing it.

Which is kind of creepy, when he thinks about it.

The older man frowns at him – Dean can practically see the sharp, steely cogs turning – but for some reason or other he lets it go, and instead returns to their original subject, the one that Dean's been trying to avoid. "So, how're you handling all this?" he asks.

It's a fair question.

"All what?"

Bobby gives him a _look_.

Geeze. "Well," he says, scratching the back of his neck and muffling a yawn, "let's just say when I was thinking about possible career paths, going after Casper with a gun wasn't exactly what came to mind."

Bobby snorts, but something crosses Sam's face, and he bends his torso forward a bit, elbows resting on his knees. "What did you think you did?" he asks, sounding nothing more than politely interested, but somehow Dean has a feeling that's not quite the case.

He takes a second or two to think, although it's not like the question is anything new. When you have no idea who you are and spend close to twelve freaking hours cooped up inside a car, you tend to think about these kinds of things. "I dunno, some kind of banker or lawyer," he hazards, waving his beer in the air about him vaguely. "Ooh, maybe a fireman. That'd be pretty cool, right?"

Sam stares for a second, then gives a little breathy, unamused laugh. He takes a sip of his beer and replies, "Yeah. Pretty cool."

"But what kind of courses do you have to take to be a ghostbuster?" Dean wonders aloud. "Is there a demonology major or something?"

Another Bobby-Sam glance exchange. "…I think you're missing the point a little, Dean," Sam says tactfully, with a face that says 'look at me, I'm being _sensitive_' and also 'I am mildly concerned for your mental health'. "Hunting's not really the kind of thing you want people to know about. The idea of the supernatural being real isn't exactly, um, widely accepted."

"I know that," he scowls. "Give me a break, I'm not retarded. I was just.. like, is there some kind of track to being a hunter? Like taking classical studies or -" he cuts himself off, flushes. "Forget it, it's dumb," he mutters.

"Well, uh," Bobby looks to be at a loss. "That kinda thing would be handy, sure," he says at last, nods. "Most folks don't have that sort of background though. Hunters…" the man pauses, then continues delicately, "…well, the huntin' lifestyle's not usually one that's so much chosen as, say… tripped on."

Dean grimaces. "Somehow I get the feeling that it's not a happy kind of trip."

"Not usually," Bobby admits dryly.

"So how'd you and I get roped into it?" he asks Sam. "What did we do before," he makes another vague gesture, "all this?"

Sam has a stricken look on his face, but he schools it down before Dean has time to do anything more than wonder. "Ah…" he looks away, hands absently fiddling with the label on his beer. "We're… kind of the exception."

Dean nods soberly, finishes his beer, stares off into the distance for a while.

And gives up. "Okay, what the crap does that mean?"

"I mean…" Sam glances at the ceiling and squints as if the right words are written there in Aramaic or something. "We've always been hunters. It's kind of a… a family business."

"Gotcha." He hesitates, then throws out offhandedly, "I'm guessing that's where the 'everyone's dead' thing comes in, right?"

His brother winces visibly, clearly remembering the moment Dean's referring to, and his mouth hangs open for a while like a fish, as if to protest or apologize or do something of the sort, except nothing like that comes out. "…Yeah."

"So you and me," Dean clarifies, making sure, "we're all that's left."

Sam nods tightly, knuckles white in his lap.

_That really, really sucks_, Dean thinks, but what he says is "Wow, we must be good, huh?"

Sam smiles a little, but somehow it's almost like he's not smiling at all.

0000

They talk for a while longer, though really it's Bobby who does most of the talking. Dean learns a lot of disturbing things, like that he's never been to college, that his mother died burning on the ceiling (_but the demon's dead now, we killed it_), that salt is apparently more than just a condiment, that he's legally dead (and a criminal, let's not forget that), and that he supposedly has an unnatural love affair with Sam's car and 80's cassette tapes. Sam speaks up a little sometimes, correcting here and there or adding a small mundane detail, but despite that nothing strikes Dean as familiar or even gives him a creepy deja vu, and memories from the twenty-nine odd years of his life don't even show their butts, let alone faces.

…He's not sure who's more disappointed by that, him or Sam.

0000

When Bobby tells him that he sold his soul in exchange for Sam's life, he can't help but gape.

"Hold - hold on," he fumbles, off-balance, not paying attention to the glare Sam's directing at the older guy. He stands up and starts pacing around the room, absently peering at books with weird titles like _Charms of Absalom _and _Olde Myths of the New World_. For some reason, this pill is harder to swallow than the concepts of ghosts and bullets made of rock salt. "You were dead, and I… resurrected you?"

Sam keeps quiet, but Bobby makes a face. "Technically the crossroads demon did, but yeah. Your dumb ass made the deal."

"And I went to hell for it? Like, _hell _hell?"

"A year later," Bobby confirms, sneaking a look at Sam, who's pretty much not glaring at anyone except maybe the floor right now. "…Four months ago."

Dean stops pacing and turns. He can't make out Sam's eyes under the bangs, but he stares anyway, not particularly caring if he's rude.

It sounds surreal to him, a story about another guy. He can't picture throwing his life away for someone else, let alone for someone who's already kicked the bucket. Family or not, dead is dead, right?

Besides, that kind of thing, that kind of sacrifice… it's the action of a desperate man, and Dean just can't understand how anyone can be reduced to that just from losing one person, however loved. He can't even imagine feeling such a huge responsibility for another human being, can't imagine what it's like having anyone matter so much that he'd feel like whatever happens to him doesn't matter, so long as they're okay.

He just doesn't get it.

Like, at all. So okay, life's not going all that great for him right now, maybe, he hasn't exactly found out he's a lost heir to a billion dollar company with a hot girlfriend and a Ferrari, but whatever. Still pretty sure he _likes _being alive.

...Sure beat being in hell, anyway.

Dean's head tilts a little to the side, trying to figure out why Sam might be so important, why before-Dean would give up his own soul just so Sam can walk around being his little ray of sunshine self.

Because the guy doesn't look like much, frankly. The face is fine, sure, not exactly ugly, but his hair's way too long for Dean's liking, and not exactly a unique or spectacular shade of brown, his eyes are hollow and underlined with rings – and they're dark, unreadable except for those times he looks like he might break and Bobby clenches his hands and Dean has no idea what's going on. Which is too damn often for Dean's comfort.

And God, is Sam grumpy... and quiet, and kind of menacing - or, well, he _was, _back when he thought Dean was a revolver or whatever. There's still this intense, desperate air around Sam even now though, just... _weight_, and Dean wonders whether it's because he's alive or because he used to be dead, or if Sam's just always been like that, like he's only a second away from having a bomb explode in his face. He even makes sitting look like hard work, the way he folds his huge frame up in Bobby's chair like he can barely fit, muscles coiling and rippling under the long-sleeved shirt like he's ready to burst into a run or a fight or a really hard tap dance.

To be completely honest, Sam doesn't look like he needs anyone to take care of him. He doesn't really look like someone anyone would want to mess with - much less feel the need to protect.

He doesn't look like the type to let himself die. Except...

_"You can call me Sammy."_

...Except.

Dean blinks. His forehead wrinkles.

"You're my _little_ brother," he says slowly, incredulity leaking into his voice. It seems kind of obvious now, although at the same time he can't help but think it's a bit ludicrous. The guy's taller than him, for heaven's sake, and built like a fricking house, and he might not know much about it, but he's pretty sure big brothers should always be able to kick their little brothers' ass.

Dean decides then and there to start working on that, start getting in shape. No way is he going to mess with the natural order of the universe. It's, like, bad karma.

Sam gives a start, as if it hadn't even crossed his mind that there be any doubt as to who's older. He glances at Dean as if to say something, but he doesn't, just swallows and nods.

Dean frowns, looks harder.

And just like that, it's like something _shifts_, reality or whatever, because all of a sudden, Sam really does look like just a kid – a really tall kid, granted, but his face is suddenly vulnerable and open and Dean can read every single line in it, every wrinkle, and for the first time he doesn't see someone who can break him in half with one hand, but just a boy, missing his big brother.

He thinks back to the diner, Sam's enraged face. Thinks back to the car, and Sam's clenched fists, and _what makes you think we didn't get along?_

…Make that _really _missing his big brother.

He wants to say something like _man, I must have let you have all the milk when we were little_, or _guess you have to do what I say now, huh_? but then an awful thought comes to Dean, and he's not even sure why it's so awful except that it is. "You didn't… Sam, you didn't make a deal for me, did you? To bring me back?"

The green eyes open so wide Dean thinks he can see into Sam's brain - which would be nice, actually. He's getting tired of trying to get into this guy's head.

"No," Sam denies emphatically. "_No_. I didn't, Dean, I swear." He pauses, looks away. "…No demon would deal," he says lowly, the _I'm sorry _implied.

_Meaning you tried_, Dean thinks, and just the idea makes him sick to his stomach.

"Good," he replies forcefully, relieved, although he doesn't even know why he's so affected by this. There's no way he would do it again; he barely knows Sam, and God, hell must have _sucked_. "Good," he repeats, and adds, "I'm glad."

Sam's face screws up weirdly.

"You're an idiot," he chokes out hoarsely, hands bunching up his jeans at the knees.

Dean smirks a little. "It's okay, pretty sure I can get by on my looks," he says, heading back to his chair, pausing on the way to reach out a hand to ruffle the messy brown hair (because he's the older brother, damn it). "Don't worry, man, I'll let you be the brains of the family."

Sam stares. "How -" he blurts, cuts himself off, tries again. "God, how can you be…?"

"So awesome? Yeah, I wonder that too sometimes."

And apparently that's it for Sam, because Dean only gets to glimpse a blur of long legs unfurling before a stone wall in a plaid shirt crashes into him and he's squeezed so tightly his ribs squeal in protest. His nose is mashed up against Sam's broad and bony shoulders, and his shirt pulls tight when big hands grip and clench onto the fabric.

He breathes in. Sam's unfamiliar scent fills his nostrils – he smells like sun and sweat and paper – but somehow it suits, and he doesn't really mind.

He hesitates a bit before awkwardly returning the hug, because after all, this means a lot more to Sam than it does to him and something that about seems unfair. It feels like he's hugging a stranger, at first, except then he remembers the forlorn but hopeful look in Sam's eyes and then it kind of feels like he's keeping Sam together, almost like he's comforting a little kid.

A huge, strange, broken little kid he doesn't even know.

Sam heaves a silent sniff against Dean's neck, and there's a wetness sliding down his nape that kind of tickles. This is all kinds of weird, Dean thinks, and not all that manly besides, but he lets it go, makes sure his hold on Sam isn't too loose or too tight, except his hands somehow know what to do without even trying.

He's glad he can't see Sam's face, though, because there are some things he already knows he doesn't want to handle.

Sam - _Scowly _- crying is one of them.

"…Sorry I came back wrong, Sammy," he whispers roughly into the plaid, lets himself, because after all, Sam can't see Dean's face, either.

Sam doesn't say a word, but the steel arms tighten.

"Memories or no, boy," Bobby says with finality, watching them, "it's good to have you back."

0000

Sun hits his eyelids, turning his world a warm, pulsing shade of red. He wakes up grudgingly; the naps he stole in the Impala really haven't done any wonders for his neck, and Bobby's guest bed is goddamn ergonomiccompared to the car. Say what you will about the man, but his beds are almost worth the ten hour drives and crappy beers.

A yawn escapes his mouth, but he still throws off the thick blanket he'd cocooned himself with during the night and sits up. He absently scratches his chest as he ponders whether to take a shower or go downstairs and see what the guys have been up to - the other bed in the room's empty, and he has a sneaky suspicion that it's not exactly six in the morning. Maybe six in the afternoon.

He stretches his arms, eyes crinkling as another yawn takes over his face. His skin feels a little slimy, sweaty.

...Shower it is.

He dodders to the bathroom like a reluctant preschooler getting ready for school. Or maybe more like an old man getting ready for his sponge bath. Anyway. His eyes are barely open as he strips off his jeans and boxers and loses himself under the spray of water. The water's scalding in a comforting kind of way, if that makes any sense, and he stays like that, head tilted back and mouth slightly open, until his fingers are pruny and the bathroom's so steamy he can hardly breathe.

There's a towel on the counter, and thank God – or more likely, Bobby – for that, because he sure as hell hadn't been thinking ahead when he decided to take a shower, and the two men aren't exactly the kind of audience he wants to give a free show to. Or any kind of show, really.

He walks back into his room, and finds himself somewhat speechless when he notices the clothes neatly folded up on his bed. They're his size – he checks – and he hasn't done a whole lot of thinking about the subject - huh, so guess he's at least somewhat straight - but they look just like something he might wear.

The unexpectedly thoughtful gesture totally doesn't knock him off his feet, he decides manfully. He's _owed_ clothes that don't smell like dirt and sweat, thank you very much, and besides, it's probably better for everyone if he doesn't stink to high heaven. This is totally practicality, nothing else to it.

He dries himself off, legs first, snickers at the image of big, grouchy Bobby folding laundry. He moves to his arms, amusing himself with the thought that maybe it was big, grouchy Sam –

His hand jerks back as if stung.

…The fuck.

...The _fuck_?!

There's a completely out-of-place handprint – _hand_print_, _print of a_ HAND_ – lodged like a sore right on his shoulder.

His fingers run over it cautiously, feeling out the bumps, the raised red skin. It looks recent, raw. Ugly. It looks like it should hurt.

More importantly, though, it looks like it's _not supposed to be there_.

He makes himself breathe, slow down his heart rate. _Easy there_,_ Not-a-Zombie_. _Maybe you had a weird hand fetish before you died_. _Maybe this is just the result of really, _really _great sex_.

Yeah, right. Unless he's been messing around with Bigfoot – and he's pretty sure he remembers Sam being clear last night about Bigfoot not existing, right along with Santa and unicorns and the Easter Bunny – Not-a-Zombie's relatively sure this has nothing to do with sex whatsoever. Sex is awesome, sex makes you feel good (so okay, he doesn't remember _having_ sex exactly, but he's just gonna go with his instincts on this one), sex does _not_ leave fucking huge handprint on your left deltoid.

That is, unless he's forgotten some crucial fundamentals about sex, somewhere between dying and coming back.

...He's pretty sure that's not the case.

Like, _really_ pretty sure.

Maybe, he thinks suddenly, it's a souvenir of wherever he went when he died – _hell _hell, if Sam and Bobby are to be believed – like a signature, proof that Satan or whatever had a claim on his soul, left its handprint on him, as the saying goes.

The thought almost bowls him over with the urge to punch something, preferably whoever's in charge upstairs.

...Great.

His life's a fucking _pun_.

0000

It's not until he puts on a shirt that he realizes that he can't remember his name.

And for the first time that he can remember, Not-a-Zombie kind of wants to cry.

* * *

_Author's note: Thank you so much for the response last chapter! You guys are amazing. Hope you enjoyed this chapter as well... I realize not much happened, but it's difficult to pick and choose what scenes to write out and which to gloss over. There's so much craziness in the show that we take for granted now that anyone else - particularly someone without his memories - would have a lot of trouble dealing with. That said, though, I don't intend to have Dean freak out in EVERY chapter, so no worries that I'm gonna be too formulaic with this. This Dean's a little more laid back and trusting than the Dean we're used to, I think, and doesn't know enough to get angry or worried about the things that matter - that is, what Sam's been up to while he was in hell. So he might be all too carefree sometimes, actually.  
_

_Question for you guys - the brother hug, was that in character? I figure only a special occasion can make these two touch each other, and Dean coming back from the dead seems pretty special to me. But then, I adore schmoop to a rather unhealthy degree...  
_


	5. I wish upon tonight

**The obeisance of memory**

* * *

_A/N: I've been trying to put this up all day, but fanfiction was being retarded (Sorry website!). Anyhoo, hope you guys appreciate this mammoth of a chapter. It's your reward for being awesome.  
_

* * *

He runs down the stairs, slipping a little when his socked feet slide across the wooden paneling. He's not even sure what bugs him more, forgetting his name _(you IDIOT, what kind of moron forgets their own frigging name?) – _or the huge-ass handprint on his shoulder, but it doesn't really matter because his lungs are in his throat and the loud thudding of his heartbeat is the only thing he can hear.

Well, aside from Sam and Bobby, that is.

_"-Know I don't mind you two staying."_

He stops, inches slowly towards the kitchen, his back to the wall and making sure no stray bodyparts are visible.

All right, so he does kind of feel bad about eavesdropping – seems like a poor way to repay someone's hospitality – but this conversation sounds like something he's gonna want to hear. And who knows, maybe without him there these two will actually let something slip.

It's a chance he's willing to take. After all, it's not like they'd do anything to him if they catch him spy- _lingering _aimlessly.

…Right?

Meanwhile, Sam's voice is quiet. "I know."

"He's back, Sam – got no idea how he did it, but hell if I'm about to look a gift horse in the mouth. So take a break from whatever it is you're doing, all right, and spend time with your brother." Pause. "He deserves that much."

Silence. Then, "I know he does."

"But?" Bobby sounds wary.

"But I can't stay, Bobby, you know that. Something's going on with the demons, they're going berserk. The group I followed to Pontiac practically vanished as soon as I got there, and apparently -" Pause. "I think – I'm _sure_ Lilith is up to something, Bobby, I just have to figure out what it is. And find out how he fits into all this."

"So you boys are leaving." Another sigh. "Don't know why I expected anything different from you two."

Another silence, this one longer. He strains his ears, but he can't hear a thing. What the heck are they doing in there?

"Bobby," Sam says finally, "Dean can't come with me. You know that."

Thank God for Sam, he thinks, letting out a relieved breath, mouthing his name silently at the wall. _Dean. My name is Dean_.

Now just to make sure he doesn't forget it again... _you nimrod._

"No, I _don't _know that," Bobby says. "He's your family, kid, and he needs you now. You're all he's got."

"He has you," Sam returns. "You just said he can stay."

"Damn it, Sam," the older man exclaims, sounding incredulous. "You really want to leave without him?"

"Don't you get it, Bobby? He doesn't remember _anything_ – not about hunting, not about Lilith, not about you… not about me. I can't just drag him into a war when he doesn't even know how to fight it." Sam stops, then adds in a low voice, "Let alone if he wants to."

"You don't know how long this memory outage is gonna last, Sam," the other man says reassuringly. "For all you know it could be tomorrow."

Sam's voice is bitter, wry. "Or never."

"Or never," Bobby agrees. "But you don't know that so shut your fucking trap. Either way doesn't change the fact he needs you."

"Needs me? He doesn't even know who I am, Bobby! "

"Look," sound of a chair creaking. "Being with you, doing what he used to, that's likely the best way to get everything to come back. You just have to keep an eye on him, that's all."

"And risk him freezing up when he's facing down a demon, or the one time I look away? No way. I won't… I can't have that happen." He lets a breath loose. "…Besides, we spent just as much time here when we were kids as in any motel room. To be honest, this might be better than any random motel 8 we stay at."

"Don't you give me any of that _crap_," Bobby snaps, and Dean thinks, _damn, the dude packs some firepower_. "How do you think Dean's gonna feel when he finds out you left him behind? To go after Lilith, no less?"

"He'll have to deal," Sam says harshly. "The way he is now, Dean will only get himself killed."

Dean scratches the back of his neck, makes a face. He knows that's true, but still. Ouch.

Bobby stays silent for a minute, then sighs. "Guess I can't really argue with that," he says, although his tone clearly implies that he wants to. "But son, you can't just go after Lilith alone. That'll get _you_ killed."

"Don't worry, Bobby, I'll be fine."

"...That mean you already got someone watching your back?"

"I'll be fine," Sam repeats, somewhat more coolly.

Beat.

"If you say so," Bobby says at length, then raises his voice. "You catch all that, Dean?"

Dean starts, then reluctantly takes the one step required to stand in the entryway to the kitchen, a sheepish grin growing on his face._ Busted_. "Mostly, I think."

Sam twists in his chair to face him, eyes big and wide in his face, jaw a little slack. "Dean," he breathes. Then, "Dean -"

He avoids Sam's eyes, keeping them on Bobby so he wouldn't have to see the anger or betrayal or whatever it is people feel when they discover they're being overheard when deciding your future. "Yeah, uh… sorry. Didn't mean to eavesdrop or anything, but y'know, it _is_ kind of me you guys were talking about. I'd have appreciated having at least some input."

"Dean," Sam starts again desperately, but Bobby's the one who interrupts him this time.

"So what'd you think about this, boy?" he asks pointedly, sending Sam a sharp glare. "You okay with what Sam's got planned here?"

Dean follows his gaze and accidentally makes eye contact with Sam, who looks a little panicked for some reason, like someone who'd been caught listening to Evanescence and knows he's never going to hear the end of it. Does Sam listen to Evanescence? Dean wouldn't be surprised.

"Sounded good to me," Dean shrugs, looking back at Bobby, and is taken aback when the other men's jaws _drop_.

Like, literally.

"…What does?" Bobby finally manages, completely dumbfounded.

"You know," was he missing something? "me staying here while Sam goes after the bad guys. I mean," he looks from one man to the other, not sure what he's doing wrong because the jaws have yet to be picked up off the floor, "it makes sense, right? I don't want to get killed. Or get you killed," he adds, facing Sam. "And like you said, it's not like I remember the best way to kill a leprechaun or whatever, and what if we go after one but it turns out it's really, like, a werewolf? We'd be totally screwed."

Something flashes over Sam's face.

Bobby looks anything but amused. "You don't mind staying here?" he says, but somehow Dean has the feeling that it's a completely different question he's asking.

Too bad he has no clue what it is. "Well, unless you do, not really. You got cable, right?"

Sam's chair loudly scratches the floor when he pushes it away to get up and walk over to the sink. Long hair covers his face when he leans his weight over the counter, and Dean can't tell whether he's looking down or just out the window. Not that it really matters anyway, but still.

Dean sends a _wonder what's wrong with him? _glance at Bobby, but Bobby's too busy shooting lasers or something down at the table to notice.

…Oookay. "Is something wrong?" _Is it something I said?_

No one looks at him or says anything, and the silence is so… pervasive, that for a second Dean wonders if this is all an illusion, if maybe he's really back in the coffin and never made it out. None of this makes sense anyway, the digging through packed earth part and the empty gas station and the cosmic spaz and finding his brother in a diner and Sam and curly fries and the ghostbusting thing and the junkyard and Sam and Sam and _Sam_.

Who is now turning around, smiling a little, and that's when Dean knows he should be officially freaked out.

"Not at all," Sam says, and his eyes look just fine when he adds, "I'm glad you aren't stubborn about this. I… I didn't know how you'd take being left behind."

"No problem," he replies hazily, staring. A minute passes before he snaps out of it, and he tries on an uncomfortable smirk. "After all, it's not like you need me there to hold your hand."

Sam's eyes shutter, although his smile is just as wide.

"...Right."

0000

The _click_ of the trunk snapping shut echoes across the yard, bouncing back and forth from one scrap of metal to the other in a game of tag. It stays in Dean's head long after it's gone, and somehow he knows that he'll remember it for a long time, probably because his brain's empty of memories and needs a hobby to fill up all the missing space.

Or maybe because it's the sound of Sam leaving.

Bobby hugs the guy hard and quick, mutters something into his ear that Dean can't hear – which is probably intentional, the bastard. Sam murmurs something back, just as quietly, then gently pulls away with a rueful smile and a nod, leaving a hand on Bobby's shoulder that somehow just looks too grown up and wrong and makes Dean infinitely aware of how he's standing a couple of feet away, on the outside looking in.

"Take care of this one," Sam says louder, jokingly, nodding his head in Dean's direction. "Don't let him get into too much trouble."

The old man gives him a Bobby look – the one that Dean figures either means _I know what you're doing _or _you're an idiot _or both – and shrugs off Sam's hand. "I look like that big a fool to you?" he retorts, raising an eyebrow.

Sam chuckles a bit, and then looks over at Dean.

He forces a grin, feeling like something's caught in his throat. Bobby's cool and all, but Sam is the one he's spent the most time with so far, the one to give him a real name, the one who knew exactly what to do with Dean. To have him leave just as Dean is finally ready to trust him… it's just, it kind of sucks, a little.

Plus, what the hell is he supposed to do now?

"Hey," Sam says lamely, and Dean blinks, realizing that at some point while he spaced out Sam has moved to stand in front of him, presumably to give him his own goodbye.

He wants to roll his eyes and say something disparaging, but he finds himself just staring at Sam and his mouth doesn't seem to want to open.

Which is total crap. He's known this guy for what, a day? Dean should be fine with this. Dean _is _fine with this. Fuck it, Dean's _awesome_.

"So, uh…" his brother's voice stumbles, then steadies. "You be good, okay?"

"_Dude_," he frowns, deadpan, and somehow his voice is now coming out just fine. "I'm not seven."

"You act like it," Sam says, the smile not completely reaching his eyes.

He actually thinks he might be a bit offended. "Excuse me? What?"

"Well of course, I-" Sam blanks for a scant second, but then he forces a smirk. "…Sorry, I... guess I forgot."

Dean cocks his head to the side and stays quiet, sensing that somehow he's stepping on a minefield but not really sure how to avoid the explosion.

"I'll keep in touch," Sam says at length, hand running through his too-long hair, and it's somewhat gratifying to see that he's just as uncomfortable as Dean.

He winces visibly. "For God's sake, Sam," he complains, "don't you have a way of saying that that doesn't make me sound like some chick getting dumped?"

Sam raises an eyebrow, amusement dancing in his eyes. "I'll call?"

Dean shudders. "Please, that's worse."

"I'll ring you up?"

"Dude, _what_?"

"It's not you, it's me?"

"Are you trying to get your ass kicked?"

Sam laughs, and Dean can't help but reluctantly grin back .

"Take care of yourself, all right?" his brother says.

"Yeah, you too," he returns. Hesitates. "Hey Sam," he starts awkwardly, "you- you don't need me, right? You'll be okay?"

Sam stands there for a moment.

"Yeah, Dean," he finally says, lightly tapping Dean's shoulder with a fist. "Don't worry. I'll be fine."

0000

A week after Sam leaves, Dean discovers that a large part of being alive apparently consists of being bored out of your mind.

It's not, you know, like Bobby's place isn't _fascinating_ or anything. The guy has a pretty decent array of trashed cars, like one might expect in a salvage yard, and a huge collection of books, like one would probably not expect, which Dean can't wait to sink his teeth into.

…Okay, so that last one's totally a lie.

The car thing isn't so bad, though. Bobby quickly finds out that for a guy who can't remember what mac 'n cheese tastes like if you paid him, Dean's actually pretty good at fixing a four stroke engine and hotwiring cars. Which would have been helpful to know back at the gas station, but, you know, whatever.

It's kind of weird when he thinks about it, too, because as far as Dean knows, mac 'n cheese is more integral - instinctual, _something _- to human survival than being able to tell the difference between a carburetor and a fuel pump, or at least it should be. In any case, according to Bobby this sort of violates the concept of tabula rasa that Dean is supposed to embody, and Dean isn't really sure what that means but it sounds kind of badass.

...Still, not the point. Nice as it is to find out he has a marketable skill – although it's not exactly much of a moneymaker, if Bobby's house is any indication – cars don't really make up for human interaction. And being stuck in a house in the middle of nowhere with no one but a gruff old man who's gone half the time is enough to drive anyone nutters, even someone whose entire phonebook (except Dean doesn't have a phone, noooo) can't be narrowed down to two freakin' hunters.

For some reason, though, Bobby doesn't really seem to get it. Instead, a few days after discovering that Dean can give his mechanic abilities a run for their money, Bobby decides Dean should see whether his other old skills are still in his noggin. You know, the ones that could get him mistaken for a serial killer.

Or actually, if Sam and Bobby's stories are anywhere close to the truth (Dean still has his doubts), the ones that _did _get him mistaken for a serial killer.

"Not like this isn't fun, but tell me again why I'm stuck here shooting cans and not, you know, going places where there are people who are not you? No offense."

"None taken." Bobby narrows his eyes. "You miss the part where you are legally dead? Or that your life might be in danger?"

"I got the legally dead part, yeah," Dean replies, aims his rifle, shoots, and winces from the kickback. The blast thuds in his ear as a can of fried beans shoots off the ledge. "But you're not exactly Joe Law-abider, are you? Can't you Jason Bourne me some documents so I can be a free American citizen?"

"And what," Bobby says dryly, "let you loose on the world?"

_Bang._ His ears hurt. "Oh come on, Bobby. I'll play nice, I promise. The world's got nothing to fear."

Bobby sighs wearily, and if he didn't know better Dean might think that he's somehow getting on his nerves. "Until we know exactly what brought you back from the Pit and what it wants from you, you're safer staying here."

Dean lowers the gun and turns to face the other man. "And how do we find that out? Because your place is nice and all, but you know, I'd really like to get on with my life."

Bobby looks off at the scattered cans and frowns. "It's tricky," he replies after a moment, one hand scrubbing his scruffy face. "Until you get your memories back or I know you can handle whatever's coming at you, I think it's best we don't advertise you being alive just yet. Don't want anyone getting a shot at you."

Great. "Seriously?" he moans. "I have to stay here that long?"

"Sorry, kid," and for once, Bobby actually looks sympathetic.

0000

If nothing else, having to relearn – or really, figure out what it is he knows – about hunting gives a new direction to Dean's day, relieves the antsiness a little. It's hard noticing how bored he is when Bobby has him running laps and doing PT and practicing with different weapons, and if that's not enough he even gets locked in Bobby's library (_literally_ – at least the first couple of times, before Dean realizes he knows how to pick locks) every day after lunch to do some studying on what's out there, poltergeists and ghosts and werewolves and other shit that belongs in horror flicks and should really just learn to _stay there_.

It's all very grueling, and a little too Rocky-like in its cliché-ness, but the truth is that Dean is way too tired to care. Sleep, he finds, is a very valuable pastime, and he discovers that the best way to get to it is by spending every spare moment unwinding in front of the TV in his room, flipping through channels and nodding off to the noise in the background.

Which might explain some of the dreams.

_"Hey there, Dean," the lithe girl smiles slyly, crawling on all fours over to the sofa. Her little red dress slips and slides, revealing muscular, tan legs that are just begging to-_

_"Hey yourself," he smirks, watching her come closer and closer, slink slink slink. He can't take his eyes off. Is it possible to be attracted to shoulders? "What's up?"  
_

_She pouts. "I'm bored," she says, but her pout soon widens into a smirk. "You look bored too."_

_Wherever this is going, this is pretty much awesome. "Whatever shall we do?" he intones dramatically, his eyes now following the cascade of her hair.  
_

_"I might have a couple of ideas," she offers innocently._

_"I might like to hear these ideas," he replies.  
_

_She widens her eyes playfully. "They might be a little... interactive."_

_"I like interactive," Dean answers immediately. He wets his lips. "Uh, just so you know, I... it's been a while, and I... might not go easy on you."_

_Her full mouth widens into a predatory grin. _

_"...Who says I want you to?"_

_He's in heaven. _Heaven! _"Have I ever told you that you're absolutely -" _

_…He cuts himself off, distracted by something poking at his ankles. Dean looks over at his feet, where the something gray is busy untying his shoes. _

_"Hey, what's a monkey doing here?" he frowns, then looks questioningly back at Jessica Alba. _

_She raises a perfect eyebrow, eyes dark with lust. "The shirt is roja. Can you say roja?"_

_Dean stares. _

_"What?"_

_"Oh, _no! _Que estás haciendo?"_

_The fuck? "Uh, Jessica?"  
_

_"Swiper, no swiping. Swiper, no swiping. _Swiper_, _no_ – "_

"Dean_, _wake UP!"

He blinks awake.

An anxious face fill his vision, so close that Dean can count the number of lines and pores – which, ew. Rough warm hands have a tight grip on his shoulders, and he vaguely registers that he must have been shaken awake, rather harshly if his headache is any indication. And his cheek is sort of warm and stings a little.

"…Bobby?" he mutters blearily, voice still scratchy with sleep, rubbing the sleep from his watery eyes. "What's goin' on?"

The brown gaze seems to pierce him right through, but then the lined face recedes as Bobby draws back and settles his ass down on Dean's bed. He's wearing an old white shirt and some pjs, like he's just been about to go to sleep, which, while not a sight Dean particularly wants to dwell on, also doesn't really explain why he's in Dean's room in the middle of the night.

Um.

"Bobby?" he tries again. "What are you doing here?"

The man slumps his back as a sigh slips out of him, and a slightly trembling hand goes up to cover the top half of his face.

The realization takes him by shock; for the first time, Dean realizes that the old man actually looks shaken.

He props himself up on his elbow, worried – after all, this guy's the only person he has in the world right now, and he hadn't even been aware Bobby had feathers to be ruffled. "Whoa, Bobby, what is it? You all right?"

Bobby slowly looks up, looking incredulous. After a moment of giving Dean an unnervingly thorough look-over, he says quietly, "Your dream. What was it?"

Dean gawks a little at the odd question, but he sits up and runs his hands over his face, trying to clear his head enough so he can answer, because for some reason Bobby's acting like it's really important.

He looks around the room, trying to think back to a minute ago. The alarm clock next to his bed says 3:45 am, and he catches a glimpse of his TV, now on low volume, where _Dora will be back! ...After these commercials_.

…Oh. _Right_.

"Nothing," he mumbles, feeling his cheeks redden. Fuck, how embarrassing. This is probably what it feels like to be caught in the act by your dad, he thinks distantly.

The other man gives him a sharp stare.

Yeesh. "Okay, okay, I get it already," Dean says, rolls his eyes. "You're right, there's a reason people shouldn't watch too much TV, and it's not just because of the electric bills." His hand grasps for the remote and shuts off the television just as a Dove ad comes on. "There, happy? Can I go back to sleep now?"

Bobby searches his face, then just frowns at him outright.

He frowns back. "What?"

"Dean," Bobby says slowly, "you know you had a nightmare, right?"

_...Come again?  
_

"What?" He wrinkles his forehead. "No I didn't."

"I'd say you were," the older man says and leans forward, looking concerned. "Since you were _screaming your lungs out_."

"I wasn't," he argues, starting to get a little freaked.

"Yeah you were," Bobby growls back, a bit of his typical snippiness coming through, and it's probably sad how relieved that makes Dean. Seeing Bobby off-balance kinda feels like having the ground split under your feet. "What the hell do you think woke me up?"

"But I wasn't, Bobby, I swear," he says earnestly. "Seriously, it was just a harmless and... really weird dream. I mean, there was a monkey in it, but it was just untying my shoes, not - I don't know, chasing me with a knife or something."

The bed creaks as Bobby stands and moves over to the window, heaving a sigh before glancing back at Dean, moonlight casting odd shadows on his face. "Son," he says finally, " I don't know what dream you think you had, but there's no way that was just some run of the mill puppies and rainbows dream." His voice changes, turns haunted. "Good God, Dean, the way you screamed... you almost sounded like -"

His mouth snaps shut. He looks stricken.

Dean's almost afraid to ask. "Like what?"

Bobby turns his head away.

"Like you were being tortured, Dean," he says at last. "…Like you were in hell."

* * *

_Author's note: Okay, so how many people thought Sam would run off without Dean? _

_(glances at everyone) _

_...Didn't think so. Well, not to worry, friends, Sam is definitely not gone for good. Wouldn't be much of a Supernatural fic if he was, would it?  
_

_On another note, can you tell which scene I'm most proud of? Yup, the dream sequence. Jessica Alba + Dora the explorer? Product of a flu-ridden and brilliant mind._

_Strikingly less brilliant, though, is having to research Dora the Explorer and getting weird looks from my roommate._


	6. from up above

**The obeisance of memory**

* * *

_A/N: Hey, I updated!_

* * *

Fucking _fuck_.

Kennedy barks wildly as Dean bolts in the direction of the house, feet practically not touching the ground as another jolt of adrenaline runs through him. _Sorry, boy_, he thinks briefly, _it's a dog eat dog world_. Not to mention the Rottweiler can definitely take care of himself better than Dean can, and Dean needs all the help he can get.

It's probably slowing him down, but he really can't help glancing back. Call it curiosity, call it survival instinct, he doesn't know which it is and he doesn't have time to care. It's times like these – except he can't remember any times like these. Never mind.

And… still there. Shit_._

"Bobby!" he calls out as he takes the front stairs three at a time and leaps to the door, opening it with a bang and slamming it just as hurriedly, locking it with a twist. He pokes his fingers through the blinds, hunching a little as he lifts them apart enough to peer through.

_Shit._

"Bobby!" he shouts again, turning around. What is it Bobby's always going on about? Holy, holy – salt. Right, salt.

He runs to the kitchen. His hands knock over bottles and papers in his haste, but he can't pick them up, can't care, _focus_ –

"Looking for something?"

Dean spins around. There's a girl sitting on Bobby's table, the same one who followed him from the 77 Mustang he'd been working on.

She's pretty good looking all in all, with long brown hair and dark almond eyes and a mouth that looks like it knows its way around, if you get his meaning, and if she hadn't appeared five minutes ago out of thin air Dean might have thought about asking her out. Heck, he probably _would_ have, seeing as how she _is _the first live proof Dean has had in months of the existence of the fairer sex.

…Thing is, though, Dean's not sure she's all that live.

His eyes flick over to the door, still closed. He's pretty certain he would have heard it opening.

He smiles uneasily. "How'd you get in here?"

She – the girl – smirks at him. It's kind of unfair how sexy it is, he thinks vaguely.

"One of the perks of being a ghost, Dean. No need for buses. Or doors."

A part of him freezes. Another part of him is busy trying to reconcile the fact that he owes Bobby a beer, because hey, the supernatural _isn't _a load of crap.

The rest of him, meanwhile, blurts out, "You know me?"

The smirk turns into a sad smile.

"Of course I know you. You killed me, after all."

0000

He stares.

"You don't recognize me?" she says, rather offhandedly for someone who's supposedly dead. "I'm not surprised. This is what I looked like before that demon cut my hair and dressed me up like a slut."

He wonders distantly why a demon would choose to wreak havoc on a person's hair. Maybe bad haircuts are an untapped form of torture? Instead of asking her about it, though (which is probably a good thing, all things considered), all that comes out is a bewildered "I killed you? Me?"

"You threw me off a three story building," the girl drawls, raising a delicate eyebrow.

"Ah. Right. That's…" he trails off. "Um. Pretty fatal."

She slides off the table, looking so real, so _there_, that Dean has to remind himself that she's just admitted to being a ghost. "I should have died instantly, you know?" she muses, so idly it's kind of disturbing. "But instead there I was, five minutes later, walking like nothing was wrong, all because I was being possessed by a demon. Do you know how much it _hurts_, to walk when you're supposed to be dead? Can you imagine what that was like, to feel that kind of pain for days and _days_, wishing someone would kill me, waiting for you guys to finally get your act together and put a stop to it?"

He's not completely certain of the answer, but Dean's pretty sure that's a no. "'You guys' being me and Sam?" he tries to clarify.

"You were supposed to help me!" she snarls at him, eyes flashing. "I was trapped in my own head while it used me to _murder _people! Innocent people, Dean, and you two just let me get away!" She pauses. "Still, you know, I had _hope _when I met you. I thought, 'they know what they're doing, they'll get it out. I'll be back with my family before I know it.' I... I just wanted you to save me!"

Her hands clench into a fist.

"…But you didn't, Dean," she whispers, eyes glittering. "You _didn't._ You just let me die."

"I'm sorry," he says earnestly. It feels inadequate, all considered, but it's probably better than asking her who she is. He might not be the king of tact, but Dean has a feeling _that _wouldn't go over too well.

Her expression twists. "That's not good enough," she spits, stepping forward. "'Cause you know what, Dean, it wasn't just me you killed."

"Oh yeah?" he asks faintly. This is just... getting better and better.

"Oh yeah," she mocks. "See, I had a sister. A little sister. And she just _worshipped _me, Dean." She halts in what is probably supposed to be a meaningful, cruel pause, and says, "You know how little siblings are, right? How they'd do _anything _for you?"

Dean backs up, right hand in front and left hand reaching back, grazing the wood of a drawer. He thinks briefly of Sam.

_Nope, actually, don't have a clue._

"She was never the same after I disappeared. She just…" the girl – ghost, whatever – bites her lip, "...she was lost. And then, when they found me, when my body was in the morgue, all beat up and broken… Do you have any idea what that did to her, to see that?"

"Can't imagine," he says, hand finally grasping the handle. _But I'm sure you're gonna tell me, _he adds silently.

"She killed herself," she tells him, almost sounding like she's reveling in the fact. "Because of you, because of your stupid _family_, your stupid revenge, my little sister killed herself!"

"Wow. That's… that's pretty extreme," he says sympathetically, trying to pay attention. _Slowly now, slowly…_

The girl – ghost, whatever – glares at him. "She _loved _me."

"Yeah, probably," he agrees. "But killing herself just because you died sure makes it sound like she could have used some Dr. Phil in her life."

Her mouth opens incredulously for a few seconds, as if not sure whether to kill him on the spot or yell at him for being an asshole. Dean's hoping for the latter, himself. "Don't you get it? This is your fault! If it wasn't for you, if those fifty words of Latin had just been a little sooner, I'd still be alive! My baby sister would still be alive! Our blood is on _your_ hands, Dean!"

"No," he denies, all of a sudden angry. "It's not. I had nothing to do with any of it."

"Stop kidding yourself," she bites, moving closer, almost into the kitchen. She raises her hand, and for some reason a quiver of nervousness roils in Dean's gut, as if recognizing the movement to be some kind of threat. He doesn't know why. "You let me go. You didn't save me. You're a murderer, Dean."

He breathes out. "You know what, fine. Maybe I was," he replies evenly. In a quick, sharp movement, his left hand raises Bobby's pistol – thank goodness for hunter's paranoia, 'cause otherwise Dean would have been _so_ screwed – and trains it on where her heart would be if, you know, she still had one. Dean's not all that sure about ghost physiology. "But I'm not that guy anymore."

She laughs. "Right. Come on, Dean," she snaps sharply. "Your brain get French-fried in hell? You can't shoot me!"

"Whatever," he says grimly, and with a swallow, pulls the trigger.

Her image flickers, backs up into the living room. Encouraged, he takes a step and shoots again.

And again. And again.

Just before he wastes the last two cast-iron bullets into her, she starts laughing in a pretty evil you're-a-moron kind of way, and Dean abruptly realizes that this strategy – or the lack thereof, really – is not going to last forever.

She smirks, raises an eyebrow, spreads out her hands as though to say _what else you got?_

"What's the matter, Dean? Run out of bullets? Or are you finally ready to die?"

"As if," he shoots back, but his mind has seemingly emptied itself of anything actually useful, leaving him sort of gaping at her with only the thought that getting killed _now,_ by a little five-foot-two girl ghost, is going to be super majorly lame.

One might suppose that getting miraculously brought back to life would have inspired in Dean some kind of theological epiphany, or at least an inner debate of some kind, but he hasn't and that's probably telltale enough of his religious convictions; or really, their absence. Still, his eyes glance up to the ceiling and he thinks in what is the closest thing to a prayer he's ever made, _hey, could really use some help here, FYI_.

Nothing happens, naturally. The girl walks forward, image more and more solid by the second. Suddenly he feels an odd disconnection from everything; at first glance, it really doesn't look like there's anything here to be worried about – seriously, she's _tiny _– and yet Dean has a feeling he _really_ doesn't want to find out if she can deal out some ghostly mojo. If only Bobby could see him now - cornered by a little slip of a ghost.

It takes him a moment to get it, and it almost turns out to be a moment too long.

Two bullets and one vanished ghost later, Dean lets out a sigh and walks over to the fallen iron chandelier, thinking that for once he's kind of grateful that Bobby's house is so macabre and old that it actually has _chandeliers, _rather than something more sleek and modern that doesn't remind him of an Addams Family episode.

"Sorry, whoever-you-were," he says to the still room, nudging the chandelier with his foot. "But I kind of like being alive."

0000

_Bobby_, he thinks. _I should find Bobby_.

He doesn't move.

It's a bit of a delayed reaction, Dean admits to himself, but he really can't care less. He's sitting on the stairs, staring a hole into the ground, trying to come to terms with the fact that he's just killed a person. So what if technically she was already dead – or undead, whatever – he'd pulled the trigger and she stopped _being_.

Even if that's only temporary, if Bobby's books are anything to go by.

_Dude, get a grip. You're acting like a chick._

He just can't wrap his head around it. Why couldn't Bobby and Sam just let him leave, go off on his own somewhere? Why is any of this something _he_ has to do? Why _him_?

Although maybe the question is really how rather than why, because it doesn't look like wasting baddies is going to be much of a choice. Not if they're going to go after him personally on some mad quest for revenge.

...How'd he do this before? Just what kind of person can do this, day after day after day, and not go insane, not lose something inside each time?

The door opens. "- here, but check around back-"

His head snaps up.

"Sam," he says, surprised.

In the doorway, Sam stills. "Dean, thank God," he breathes, and bursts into motion again, only to stop awkwardly in front of Dean when the latter does nothing but stare up at him.

Finally, Dean's lip curls a little. "Thank Bobby's Walther," he corrects wryly, then says, "What's up? Everything all right?"

"Ye-yeah," Sam says, runs a hand through his hair distractedly. "Came to check on you and Bobby, and – but you're fine. You're fine."

Dean makes an uncommitted sound, then stands up hastily as the words replay in his head. "Shit, Bobby. He okay?"

"A little shaken up, I think," Sam said lowly, glancing around the room. "He's not used to ghosts getting past his – what happened here?" he says, eyes finding the mess on the floor and the fallen chandelier.

Dean starts to shrug just as the Bobby enters the room. He _does _look shaken up, Dean notices, all huddled up in his plaid trucker's jacket and face white so the gray hairs of his beard stand out in sharp relief. It reminds him of the nights Bobby has to shake him awake from his supposed nightmares - except this is different somehow. Older, almost. More personal.

He puts a hand on the man's shoulder, cranes his neck down a little so he can see eye to eye with the old dude. "Hey hey, Bobby, you all right?"

Bobby's eyes widen for a second, the better for Dean to see how the man is haunted by inner ghosts of his own. It passes quickly, though, leaving Dean blinking and wondering if he hadn't just imagined it all.

"Don't worry about it, kiddo," he says, straightening. He cuffs Dean's shoulder, leaving it for a second before shrugging his hand off. His eyebrow rises as he makes note of the chandelier. "What the hell went off in here?"

"Oh, you know," he says, following the look. He'd feel guilty, but then again it _was _in self defense. Plus, Dean has a feeling he knows who Bobby's gonna get to clean up the mess, and it sure as heck isn't Kennedy. "Felt like doing a bit of redecorating."

"Looks to me like you had some help," Bobby remarks.

He bites his lip, uncomfortably aware of Sam and Bobby's gazes. "Yeah, well," he shrugs lightheartedly, "a ghost dropped by. Said I threw her off a building."

Sam's forehead wrinkles for a moment. "This has to mean something," he tells Bobby, and Dean can't help but stare. Yeah, he tried to be all manly and put a light spin on it, but that doesn't mean he hadn't expected _something _of a reaction. Geeze, even just an _are you all right _would be nice right about now. "They're not just any ghosts. Hendrickson, Meg, those girls… It can't be a coincidence."

Bobby mirrors the thoughtful expression. "Someone's raising them, all right," he agrees. "Someone with an agenda. You said you found six dead hunters? I'm betting they were all killed by the ghost of someone they knew."

"Think it's a witch with a grudge?"

"I think you can find that out easier than I could."

"Guys?" Dean breaks in just as Sam opens his mouth in a retort. "Is it true I threw someone off a building?"

Bobby frowns at him. "Where'd you get that nonsense?"

"Uh, ghost chick? Didn't catch her name."

Sam and Bobby exchange glances. "So they're not particularly accurate ghosts," Sam says pensively.

"Could be they're just angry," Bobby suggests. "They seem pretty bent on getting whoever it is they're after, might not care about the details anymore."

Dean throws up his hands in frustration, but neither hunter is paying him much attention. After a second of standing there with his mouth open, on the verge of saying something really witty and explosive and commanding, Dean just slumps. "You know what, I think I'm just gonna grab a beer," he mutters to himself. So much for reassurance.

"Don't go outside," Bobby calls after him, belatedly. "Still have to check the wards, see what went wrong."

"Yeah, yeah," he says, flaps a hand carelessly.

He heads into the kitchen, takes a cold one out from the fridge. He leans on the counter and listens in on their conversation for a bit, but it's not all that exciting – from what he can gather, they have only slightly more of a clue about what's going on than he does – plus all the unspent adrenaline is making him antsy. He lingers for another second or two, but it quickly becomes obvious that they're firmly entrenching themselves in Bobby's library to research. _Research_.

Lame_._

...And yet, oh-so-perfect.

The cactus on the kitchen counter is the only witness to Dean's easy shrug. He slips out the screen door and sits on the porch, bottle in his hand and legs hanging in the air, barely scuffing the dirt with his toes.

He stares out into the junkyard, catching a glimpse of black where Kennedy is resting his head on his paws on top of an old convertible, only a little ways away from where ghost girl had shown up.

Ghost girl. God. There are _so _many things wrong with this world.

Which is why man invented beer, Dean reflects, twisting off the cap. He lets the coolness slide down his throat, and just that simple act almost feels like he's wiping away today's excitement from memory. It's weird - by all accounts he should feel resentful of the notion, dislike losing anything more than he already has. Strangely enough, however, he doesn't think he minds. Today's not a day he want to keep.

Thank God for beer, he thinks again, and swallows down what must be a quarter of the bottle.

"Dean Winchester."

He _jumps_, hands fumbling the bottle as it slips out of his hands and _clinks_ on the ground. It's too far for him to reach, though, and really Dean has better things on his mind than picking up after himself.

Namely, the man standing all too close behind him.

"Who – " Dean starts, then squeezes the bridge of his nose. It's only been a day, but already he's so damn tiredof everything. "Let me guess. It was me, with a candlestick, in the library."

He looks up, nose practically brushing the guy's trenchcoat, to see a blank look for his efforts, as well as a weirdly disjointed head tilt.

Geeze, tough crowd. "All right, bring it," he sighs resignedly. "How'd I kill you?"

"I am not dead, Dean Winchester," the man says, and looks down at him expectantly. "And neither are you."

Goosebumps trail up his arms.

Reluctantly, he clambers to his feet. This gets him _way _too close up to the other man, but apparently the guy has no concept of personal space because he doesn't even bat an eyelid, just continues to stare like Dean's a particularly riveting Lifetime movie.

Naturally, Dean takes offense to this. He takes a step to the side and shoves him away lightly, breath hitching a little when his hands meet rough cotton and actual resistance.

Well, golly gee. Looks like Pinnochio was telling the truth after all.

"Well," he says in bemusement, "if you're not dead, who the hell _are _you?"

The man straightens his neck and looks him square in the eye.

"My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord."

* * *

_Author's note: Hooray for Castiel! I gotta say, I was never a big fan of him, but I think I'm changing my mind. Sure, I thought he was all right, but I never took to him like other people did - they had him be practically Dean's best friend, when I saw Dean being a whole lot more cautious and suspicious about the whole guardian angel thing. But last episode really did warm me up to him a little more, even despite the hilarious growlyvoice and the whole getting Dean to torture Alastair thing. Actually, last episode kind of blew me away in general. I even liked Sam like I used to, way back when he wasn't getting high off demon blood. And oh, oh Dean_._ On the one hand I'm all like 'yes, finally he's acting like he's actually been in the mindfuck that is hell, yay for continuity and plausability, Show!'._

_And on the other hand... oh, _Dean_. You can't just get up from a blow like that.  
_

_(WARNING: spoiler for 17)_

_No wonder the writers have him forget it all in the next episode. Probably the only way they could get him believably functional._

_(End spoiler)_

_I'll admit, though, I was kind of looking forward to badass and evil!torturer!Dean, even if I'm glad he kept his humanity and was so obviously and vehemently against it (at least in the beginning). The previews for this episode had me wondering if it was going to turn me off Supernatural forever. _

_Aren't you guys glad that didn't happen? ;)_

_Reviews very, very welcome.  
_


	7. inspiration, can it be?

**_the obeisance of memory  
_**

* * *

_A/N: I realize it's been a while... hope it wasn't too long. Was busy with finals and work and family and my brain not exploding. It was kind of a lot to take on. _

_Enjoy!  
_

* * *

Dean blinks.

"Angel?" he echoes. "What, like with wings?"

The man continues to look at him with all the expression of a brick, like it's a normal, everyday thing for biblical creatures to materialize on people's porches and start spouting gospel. "Of the Lord," he repeats, with a slight emphasis on the last word. "I raised you from perdition."

"Riiiight," Dean mutters under his breath, and flashes a quick, slightly-nervous grin at the guy. A swift calculated step gets his back to the door. "Bobby!" he yells, loud enough to echo across the junkyard. "Bobby!" he yells again, and, after a moment, "_Sam_!"

He stops himself from biting his lip. Dean's not getting worried or anything, but Singer's shabby shack's only so big; there's no way they didn't hear him.

As if reading his mind, Castiel says, "They can't hear you."

"Oh yeah? How's that?" he shoots over his shoulder, having given up on subtlety and outright trying to force open the door. It isn't locked – the handle moves perfectly fine – but it's… almost as if something blocking it from inside.

Huh.

The man materializes next to him. Why the guy can't walk two feet is beyond Dean, but he supposes it's kind of cool. "Because I willed it so," he answers simply.

Dean narrows his eyes, puts a brave foot forward. Not like he has the option to freakily pop out of thin air. "If you so much as touched a hair on Bobby's head, I swear I will-"

"Dean," the supposed angel interrupts, gently, and Dean's mouth closes on its own. "There's no need for threats. Heaven means you no harm."

"You're the one who just admitted to knocking out two people with his brain," Dean points out.

Casper – or whatever his name is – looks at him with earnest blue eyes that wouldn't have been out of place on a blind cow. "They are safe. I only wished to not be interrupted."

He has to admit, he's kind of blown away by the balls on the guy_. _"Wished to not be interrupted my _ass -_"

"Dean. Did you not wonder why you were brought back from hell?"

Frown, falter. "…You saying you're the one who did it?"

Castiel places a firm hand on Dean's left shoulder, right over the soreness of the handprint. Dean can feel his warmth even through the shirt he's wearing.

"I'm the one who gripped you tight," he looks straight into Dean's eyes, making sure there's no doubt in Dean's mind what the angel – fuck, he's an _angel_ – means, "and freed you from your prison, on the word of our Father, your God."

Dean wets his lips anxiously, once. "Why would God want me back from hell?" he asks, because as far as he knows, the guy he'd used to be wasn't all that big into prayer, or charity, or not watching porn.

Castiel's forehead furrows, and he cocks his head as if the answer should be obvious. "Because you are Dean Winchester."

He laughs awkwardly. "I know I'm awesome and all, but uh, that doesn't really answer my question."

Damn, those eyes. "God has work for you."

"Work?"

"Lillith is working to bring about the end of days. She must be stopped."

Dean blinks.

"Right, okay," he says blankly, trying to be a good sport about it all. "This Lillith. Where can I find her?"

And apparently for whatever reason that's the wrong thing to say, because Castiel takes a step that brings him into Dean's personal bubble again, but now Dean's trapped against the door and there's nowhere for him to go. He glances down uncomfortably, but Castiel bends his legs a little so he can meet Dean's eyes and then straightens, forcing them to follow him. "You… don't remember," he says, sounding somewhat perplexed.

Dean shrugs uneasily. "Not a thing," he admits.

The angel frowns. Clearly this wasn't part of the master plan, but hey, seeing as he's the one who supposedly revived Dean into a grave and spirited him away from hell, Dean figures that any damage incurred in transit is definitely this guy's fault.

Still, it doesn't seem as if he'd done it on purpose, if Castiel's emotionless-and-yet-still-flabbergasted look is any indication. After a couple of seconds Dean asks hesitantly. "Uh... do I still have the job?"

Castiel takes another minute, then looks up solemnly. "It must be you. There is no one else."

Which isn't the most flattering thing in the world to hear, but the angel's all too solemn eyes stop any complaint from leaving his throat. It's pretty clear the angel's not messing around, and will not respond kindly to bullshit.

Dean swallows.

"What do I do?"

0000

"Hey Sam, question."

His brother doesn't even look up, which either means he's grossly engrossed in whatever he's reading or that he's trying to hide having fallen asleep, and Dean's pretty sure he knows which it is – Sam's not exactly what one might call a _good_ actor. "Yeah?"

"The angel I met says to stick with you from now on. You don't mind, do you?"

"Dean, I – " Sam trails off. Blinks. "…Wait, what?"

He rolls his eyes. "I'm not asking you to marry me here. We hunted together before, right? So it's not like you're not used to that kinda thing."

"…No, but it's… who'd you say told you?"

"Castiel. To tell you the truth though, I was gonna ask anyway. Cable really isn't all it's cracked up to be." Like, _really_. "Also, Bobby snores."

Sam is pulling one of his frowny faces for some reason, but Dean doesn't think too much of it – from what Dean's known of the guy so far, it doesn't seem like he really requires that much of an excuse. "Who's Castiel?" he asks, forehead lined like he's eighty, and seriously, way to dodge the question there, Sammy boy.

"You know, the angel. The one on Bobby's porch."

He's about to go in more detail, when a thought strikes him and he twists his head so he can peer across through the screen door. Would be handy to have the heavenly missive handy and talking, after all.

But nothing's there.

"Huh," he says, absently rubbing the back of his neck with a knobby knuckle. "Scratch that, think he's gone." Which just figures.

"Who's gone?" Sam repeats, that one furrow between his eyes deepening into a miniature Grand Canyon.

Dean stares at him crossly. "The freaking angel, Sam, that's who. Have you been listening to a word I've said?"

Now, it's not like Sam has exactly shown a full spectrum of emotion so far, so really seeing anything on the long face is cause enough for Dean to look to the sky and wait for the show of lights and heavenly chorus of Hallelujah, but Dean's pretty sure that this flabbergasted expression (that kind of reminds him of someone, come to think of it) the hunter has on is a pretty rare sight, even so.

"An angel," his brother repeats faintly. "As in, holy winged messenger of _God_?"

"More as in a holy winged tax accountant in a trench coat, if you ask me," he shrugs. "But yeah, I guess?"

"You guess."

"It's not like I've met all that many angels, okay? Christ, give a guy a goddamn break."

Sam blinks.

Dean puts up with the eyes and weird breathiness for a while, but finally he just can't stand it anymore. "Dude, you need me to go get you something?"

Sam doesn't answer, just keeps on gaping for so long that Dean begins to wonder if something is wrong.

No, seriously. Maybe the guy is actually sick – like, shit, what if he has asthma and there's something Dean's supposed to do or a number he needs to call, but of course he doesn't know because Sam forgot to tell him, maybe because he _used _to know because he's the big brother or maybe 'cause Sam doesn't trust him or doesn't want to burden him or something stupid like that – and isn't that just great for Sam because now he's basically screwed to hell all because Dean came back with amnesia and shit, _fuck_, just who the crap thought leaving him alone with Sam was a _good _idea?

Just before he dashes out to get Bobby – guy's an incurable packrat, only makes sense that he'd have an inhaler around somewhere – Sam stammers, "N-no, I'm – you saw an _angel_?"

Why so stuck on this, Dean wonders, but really he's just too relieved that he hasn't accidentally killed his little brother to care. "Yeah. What, is that weird?"

Sam breathes out slowly like he's trying to get a hold of himself. "…Yeah, Dean, that's weird."

"Oh," he says, faltering a little. "I just thought, you know, what with the demons and all… so they don't exist?" Really, it just figures that the _one_ time he thinks he's all cool and on top of this supernatural shit he actually gets duped.

And the man had wings and everything.

"No – yes – well," Sam seems to be having trouble with this – whatever _this_ is. "…I… I guess they could," he says finally. "It's just, no one's seen them in… well, in ages."

"Guess that makes me special," Dean replies, then smirks. "Touched by an angel, if you will."

Sam rolls his eyes and makes a sound that's either a groan or a laugh. "More like touched in the head," he says, somewhat breathless still.

Dean makes a point of ignoring him. "Hey, think this is a sign to start my own religion?" he muses aloud. "Moses had his bush, Jesus had his wine, Mohammed had his mountain, I get an angel. Ooh, I can see it now –"

"_I_ can see you getting zapped by lightning," he thinks he hears Sam mutter under his breath, but seriously, not important.

"-Deanism. The worship of fast cars and pretty women. My temple, of course, will be in Hollywood. Or Orlando, I'm not picky." He contemplates it for a while – it's a beautiful, beautiful thing to contemplate – then adds pensively, "Dude, I could have _disciples_."

Sam rolls his eyes again, which makes Dean wonder whether Sam has an eye condition. He can only hope it's not genetic. It'd really suck for the poor hairy kids.

"In your dreams, Dean. And no way, man - " he puts in before Dean can even open his mouth, "I am _not_ going to be the John to your Jesus."

"…I was thinking more like the Jimmy Olsen to my Man of Steel, actually, but hey, whatever floats your boat. Just so you know, though, you can totally forget about those seventy virgins. No sex for blasphemers in my heaven."

0000

They tell Bobby, because as Dean's quickly figured out, that's what you do when you discover anything important.

"Let me get this straight," the older man says, raising an eyebrow. He looks up at them from his desk, surrounded by books and papers and a leftover sandwich from last night. One hand holds a pen on top of a notepad while the other serves as a bookmark, crammed between the pages of a thick book. "You saw an angel."

"On your porch," Dean confirms.

"Who told you to stop the sixty-six seals on Lucifer's cage from breaking," Bobby continues, and now his hand withdraws from the book, losing its place, to rub absently at his scruffy chin.

"Save the world, basically-"

"…And prevent the apocalypse."

"By killing Lilith," Sam adds.

A long, uneasy moment passes.

"...Yeah, all right."

Dean and Sam exchange incredulous looks, which after a second or two turn into _well, this IS Bobby_ shrugs.

"No, it makes sense," he says, rolling his eyes at them. "After all, just because I've been babysitting this guy," Bobby points at Dean with a jerk of his head – who, for the record, doesn't appreciate the insinuation of being babysat at all – "doesn't mean that I sat around here twiddling my thumbs for a month. No demon can get within a foot of this house, and today's attack was, well, a tad bit unconventional. It fits in with the seals story – I'm gonna have to look it up, but think I remember reading something about the Witnesses somewhere. And I talked to my contacts. You were right, Sam – something is scaring the demons into running around like a bunch of headless chickens."

"And that's not normal," Dean says confidently, although really, fuck if he knows.

"I'd say not. In all of literature, there's only one thing that's been said to scare a demon into showing itself."

"Christo," Sam says in a low voice. "The name of God."

Bobby nods. "Exactly. It's just a small leap over to angels, when you think about it."

"And them busting Dean out of the Pit?" Sam asks, taking a chair by the backrest and sitting on it backwards. Somehow it looks cool when he does it. "You think that's possible?"

"Only beings I've ever heard of that can get in and out of hell in the first place, besides demons," Bobby shrugs. "Nothing else I know of has that much power."

There have been plenty of moments – in the past day, in the past month – where Dean can't help but think that he's surrounded by psychos. For once, though, he's kind of glad for it – anyone else would have laughed it off if he told them about seeing an angel, if not seriously questioned his mental health. It's nice to be believed.

…Still doesn't mean those two aren't psycho, though.

"So what now?" he asks, half-sitting on the table. "Do we talk to the president? Or is there like some kind of worldwide hunter union we gotta get in touch with?"

Bobby and Sam nearly choke. The way they stare at him now, it's almost like they think he's the crazy one. "Why on earth would we do that for?"

Dean stares back. "Not sure if you guys got the message, but the _end of the_ _world _ _is coming_," he says slowly, making sure to enunciate every word very clearly, just in case he's somehow not being understood. "I'm thinking that's something people are gonna want to know."

"Yeah? And what are they going to do about it, genius?" Bobby snorts. "Buy duct tape?"

"They just aren't ready for things like this, Dean," Sam cuts in and explains patiently, if a bit clumsily – like he's never had to rationalize his way of life out loud before. "Even if people buy that there are demons wanting to start the apocalypse – which isn't, uh, very likely – there's nothing they can do. They don't have the training to deal with it."

"Not to mention they're gonna to panic," Bobby puts in.

"Which will only make it easier for Lilith to get what she wants," Sam agrees, then pauses. "As for… telling the president… well, it's not like he'd believe us. And anyway, this isn't something the army can handle. The fewer people who know about this, the fewer who get in the way, meaning less casualties – well, at least until we stop Lilith, anyway."

He frowns. "What about other hunters?"

Singer chuckles grimly. "There ain't all that many of us out there in the first place, boy, and I can count on one hand the ones that aren't loonier than a bear in a steel trap. And frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if those decided to turn on us instead." He pauses thoughtfully, then adds, "Not to mention, who knows what they'd think about you."

Dean bites his lip. "But – this isn't – it's not…" he fists his hair in frustration. "But then what are we supposed to _do_?"

The hunters look at each other.

After a moment, Bobby shrugs and says, "Beats me. You're the one getting orders from an angel."

* * *

_A/N: Just in case anyone's wondering, this story is totally canon compliant. I was lucky enough that Kripke's finale only changed very minute details. So the angels' plot, everything is still the same._

_Please review! I know this was a shorter chapter, but I'd still really like feedback - particularly with Castiel. I never know what to do with him, and he's a little difficult to write, so if you guys have any opinions or ideas, I'd be eternally grateful.  
_


	8. your memory so clear

**_the obeisance of memory  
_**

* * *

_A/N: One of the coolest things a writer on fanfiction can hear is a reviewer saying that they've found their story through a rec on ANOTHER site. That honestly never happened to me before. I'm just so grateful that you guys like this quirky little story, and just so you know, Not-a-Zombie appreciates you guys too._

_So this is one of those chapters that just came to me all at once. And it's huge, or it feels huge, at least, and I can only hope that there's _something _decent somewhere in there, because after working on it for five plus hours it feels like just a big run-on rant to me. Word diarrhea, if you will. So if you don't mind, tell me if it's okay? I really hope they're all in character, I can't even tell anymore.  
_

_A huge thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, you really made this chapter possible. Seriously, way to up my motivation._

* * *

Life on the road is easier than Dean expected.

For one, Sam's a pretty clean guy, and it's not half bad, roadtripping with someone who knows how to do laundry, because despite remembering how to change a tire and how to check the oil, Dean doesn't have a clue about that kind of stuff, what has to be washed by hand and whether blacks can go with colors and just how white does white have to be, anyway? Does gray count?

So that's good, for a start.

He doesn't have to worry about having to do anything else complicated, either. Sam's usually the one driving, since Dean doesn't know roads or landmarks and can't really be trusted not to make a wrong turn somewhere (he was only trying to find a Burger King, honest), and Sam's also the one with the wallet and the money so he's the one paying for the food, cheap and gross though it may be. So really all Dean's expected to do in between cases is sit back and follow Sam's lead, whether it's in making conversation – which is more pleasant than it sounds, most of the time anyway – or going through the numerous playlists on Sam's iPod in search of a decent tune.

The actual living isn't all that bad. The motels are for the most part somewhat clean, if kind of quirky decoration-wise – the last one had a flying pig theme, which meant that there were statues and carved armrests and wallpaper and pictures that all worked together to freak Dean out. He had some seriously crazy dreams _that _night.

But it wasn't a nightmare, so that's good at least. Actually, ever since he hit the road with Sam it seems as if the weird nightmares he can't remember are gone – or at least, Sam never wakes him up from them, so he assumes they're over with. People tend to notice if you scream like the undead, after all. There was only that one time that he woke up from a weird dream about Indians trying to find his totem animal and found tears on his face and his voice raw like he'd been yelling himself hoarse again, but apparently he hadn't woken Sam up because the mass of blankets on the other bed never moved, and none of the other guests came to complain.

Anyway.

Sam is obviously used to life on the road, the long hours and dullness and the endless search for a reasonably priced gas station. He's surprisingly patient with Dean, which is a marked and pleasant contrast from the last time they spent hours pent up in a car with each other. Dean learns from him all kinds of road games to keep entertained, and when that isn't enough Sam readily answers his questions about the supernatural, almost too much so because Sam can be a little long-winded when it's a topic he knows a lot about, which it nearly always is.

They joke around a little sometimes too, and then it's almost like they're friends.

Not to say that there aren't awkward times, because there _are_ awkward times. Often. To be completely candid here, Dean counts himself lucky if an hour goes by without him getting the increasingly familiar foot-in-mouth feeling. The trouble is that a lot of it goes over his head, and Sam never explains why he has the reactions he does, so there isn't much Dean can do about it.

At first Dean tried to, you know, do something about it. He kept quiet – can't regret what you don't say, after all – but that was boring, and even Sam asked him if everything's all right. Then he attempted to keep tabs of what it was he was saying that made Sam's face go all weird and still in the first place – the trigger words, you know – but eventually he had to give up because apparently Sam's trigger words are anything in the English dictionary.

Which is just typical.

There are also awkward times because Sam has a girlfriend. Or a girl friend. An acquaintance of the feminine persuasion, at the very least. Not that Sam knows about Dean knowing – as far as Dean knows. Sam probably thinks Dean hasn't a clue, actually. But really, if the guy is so hell bent on keeping secrets he should probably learn not to take calls in the bathroom stall at Seven Eleven when Dean has to take a leak, or take three hours to go get a measly hamburger and then give a crappy excuse like 'went to the library to go check on a lead.'

Unless he really did go to the library, which Dean wouldn't put past him (seriously, sometimes Dean doubts they really do have any DNA in common), but then there's still the secret calls and the way Sam turns spacey and distant and red and changes the subject whenever the topic of girls and girlfriends come up.

...Although, it's not like Dean's really one to talk.

A day or two after they start roadtripping together, Sam takes Dean out for a drink at a local pub. It's the first time Dean can remember being anywhere like this, with people and alcohol and bad music in the background – this used to be the before-Dean's thing, apparently, but really Dean only goes because Sam insists that being cooped up in a room with Dean 24/7 is enough to drive anyone insane and _it'll be fun, I promise_ – and they get a table at the back, smoky end of the bar.

It all starts when a girl buys Dean a beer.

He looks over when the bartender – Brad or Chad or something – tells him the drink's free, then shrugs an awkward thank you and goes back to talking to Sam, who for some reason just doesn't appreciate that baseball is just a bunch of old unathletic farts running around making fools of themselves, whereas basketball obviously requires much more talent and character; there's a reason basketball is an international sport and baseball's only played in the States and Cuba and Japan, okay?

Sam raises an eyebrow at him, then looks up as the click clack of heels stops next to their table.

"It's not very polite to accept a beer from a girl and not even tell her your name," a brunette says with a smile, elbows on the table as she bends down to meet Dean's eyes. He can't see her miniskirt-wearing butt from his angle, but he's willing to bet she's giving a very nice view to whoever's watching.

"Uh," Dean says intelligently. He shoots a panicked look at Sam, who's helpful as always. As in, not at all. "Sorry?"

"And so it begins," he thinks he hears Sam mutter, half-exasperation, half-amusement. He raises his hand to get the bartender's notice, probably to get a Bailey's (Sam really likes the stuff, but it's way too sweet for Dean), except Sam doesn't quite get the response he wanted. Oh, he does get noticed, don't get Dean wrong, but it's not Brad (or Chad) who's coming over with two Mike's Hard Lemonades and four D cups.

"So?" the brunette asks, snapping his attention back to her, because he was too busy watching Sam getting hit on by her friends to tell her his… huh. That's a big… necklace she's got there. "…Hello?"

…Name. Right, his name. Because, you know, he has one and everything.

"Dean?" he kind of stammers. Oh yeah. Born smooth talker, right here.

She grins. "Is that a question?" she says, arching an eyebrow, but thankfully takes mercy on him. "Tell you what, Dean," she says in amusement, inclining her head closer. He can smell the sweet Cosmo on her breath. "I like you. I think you're cute."

He blinks, wrinkles his forehead. "Cute?" Not exactly the look he goes for when he gets up in the morning.

"Cute." She flashes her teeth in an endearing kind of challenge. "And kind of sweet."

...This girl's all about getting guys to feel macho, isn't she?

"Um." He looks at Sam for help again, but once more, Sam's not all that helpful. Then again, he does seem busy looking uncomfortable - not that Dean would know why getting chatted up by two tipsy blondes would make you uncomfortable, but this is Sam, and Sam's kind of weird anyway.

Not that Dean's doing much better.

"Yeah," she says, eyes twinkling. Pretty eyes.

"I... I don't even know your name," he says, feeling awkward and new and dumb like a virgin getting hit on for the first time.

Which technically he is, but no way is that ever going to leave his mouth.

She tells him. Somehow that leads to making out and leaving the bar and sneaking into her dorm, but Dean can't really remember the details, who kisses who first and who tells whose brother not to wait up.

To be honest, it all gets kind of blurry after the second tequila.

0000

Note: the ride of shame back to the motel is hella awkward.

0000

Especially when Sam just rolls his eyes when he lets Dean back inside the room, as if he's used to this happening all the time (which it definitely _doesn't_) and this is just a thing Dean does (which he definitely _doesn't_). Dean's not sure exactly how one-night stands and living with your brother works, but until he figures it out he thinks he better keep the sex to a minimum, just to be safe. Like once a year, maybe.

0000

Or month.

0000

...Or week. He's flexible.

* * *

Hunting-wise, there's nothing especially interesting to report. The first couple of hunts are ridiculously tame, and always go the same way – Dean eats breakfast, Sam finds a case, Dean eats lunch, Sam researches, Dean watches TV, Sam tells Dean not to touch the laptop with his foot, Dean takes a nap, Sam finds a grave, Dean gets the shovel from the trunk, Sam stands there like an asshole while Dean gets sweaty digging the damn thing up and doesn't even get to light the damn fire.

...In all fairness, though, they do alternate. But Dean's still pretty sure Sam takes his sweet time before telling him to switch.

It's the fifth fucking case when Dean decides he's finally had it. "All right, Sam," he huffs, "what the hell's going on here?"

His brother frowns down at him. "What do you mean?"

He leans on the shovel and wipes the sweat off his face with a dirty hand, looking around at the hole around him with wary distaste. He's more or less gotten over the creepiness of cemeteries, and he's not afraid of dirt, but he still can't help the vague feeling like a hand's going to grab him and take him back to that small dark coffin he woke up in. "All this, man. Five cases, and not even a single werewolf? You can't tell me that's normal."

A sigh. "Not that I don't appreciate the… enthusiasm, Dean, but as far as supernatural creatures go, werewolves are practically an endangered species. Pretty hard to come across."

"That's not – you know what I mean," he says in frustration. "I haven't seen a ghost since I pegged one with a chandelier, it's just been dig and burn and a big fucking nothing to show for it."

Sam straightens and looks away as if busy doing something important, except Dean's rather sure it's not because he suddenly remembered that he's supposed to be on guard duty. "Sometimes it's just like that, Dean. You can't pick and choose what suddenly decides to kill people, you know?"

_Right_, Dean thinks dryly, and goes back to shoveling. _But you sure can choose which headlines to ignore._

"Hey, I'm all for saving people and hunting things," he says with a grunt as he tosses a shovel-load of soil behind him, and for some reason Sam jerks and looks down again, wide-eyed. "And it's not like I mind not having to fight for my life. I like my life. But, ah," he hesitates, keeps his eyes on the darkness of the earth and the grave below him. "Are you really sure you're not just, y'know, taking it easy because of me?"

Pause.

"What, no way," Sam says, sounding oh so earnest and convincing.

Amazingly, however, Dean doesn't buy the act. Actually, Dean's relatively sure Sam's lying.

So he just keeps going like he planned. "I mean I can't blame you," he continues, "it's been a while and I can't promise I'm totally ready – like, I might scream if I see a goblin, okay – but Bobby's been teaching me the basics, and he's not half bad, you know, he's actually kind of badass for someone who's old and knows Japanese." His fingers fidget. "So, uh, don't make all his work be for nothing, yeah?" he says awkwardly, finally raising his head.

And of course, it's right then he hits gold.

…Or wood. Whatever. Technicalities.

Dean cracks the coffin open – okay, that part is admittedly pretty cool – and climbs back out, wrinkling his nose and holding his breath as he does so (corpses seriously reek, he discovers, zombie movies don't do it enough justice). He's not even on his feet before Sam's already done drenching the coffin with gasoline.

"All right, good job," Sam says, tossing the canister aside and clapping his hand awkwardly on Dean's shoulder as if he'd actually done anything of note.

Dean stares at him.

Okay, fuck it. "Give me that," he finally snaps, holding out his hand.

Sam cocks his head, a _bzuh? _expression on his face, like Dean's turnaround caught him by surprise.

He smirks darkly, the expression strangely at home on his face. Widdle Sammy has a problem with his tone?

_Tough_. Things are about to change around here.

"The match, bitch," he says. "_My_ turn to light things on fire."

After a long hesitation, his brother woodenly hands the matchbox over, a strange, measuring, unreadable look in his eyes.

"Fine," he says at last. "...Jerk."

Dean rolls his eyes, but keeps quiet. If the guy wants to sound like a bratty first grader, far be it from him to intervene.

The grave burns, lighting their faces with yellows and oranges. The smoke smells like mold and burning flesh, but even that doesn't stop him from feeling incredibly triumphant.

(At least, Dean's pretty sure that's triumph. Unless it's his inner pyro, in which case, he should probably stop looking at the fire. Yeah. Anytime now.)

The way he's feeling, Dean thinks he might even drive the car tonight. Burger King be damned.

0000

And for the record, he doesn't scream when he sees a goblin.

0000

It's a growl. A surprised, manly growl.

0000

"…Shut up, Sam."

* * *

If Dean complained about doing nothing before, he definitely can't complain about it now. Sam shares the full load, research, Impala, matches, laundry and all, and man, but he can be a harder taskmaster than Bobby sometimes. If that's even possible. So if Dean wants to complain, it definitely can't be about equality or boredom or being stuck in stupid motel rooms anymore.

...If he wants to complain about getting chased out of town by police, however, that's an entirely different story.

"Step on it, Sam!" he shouts, turned around so he can see the flashing lights inching on them. Not that the obnoxiously loud siren isn't a big enough of a 'here there be cops' sign, you know, but it's good to keep an eye out for these things. "Drive faster!"

"Shotgun shuts his cakehole!" Sam retorts evenly, which is a weird thing to say, but Dean doesn't really have the presence of mind to ponder diction at the moment.

"Faster, you grandma!" he yells back. "Come on!"

They weave through traffic, which is just great, right, because now not only would they get charged with breaking and entering, speeding and refusing arrest, but also with reckless driving.

On the plus side, though, it's definitely more of an incentive to not get caught.

The police car sticks close, threading around cars (and okay, that's enough sewing imagery for now) and at one point even climbing onto the curb, apparently frustrated by all the soccer moms driving the speed limit, which gets the kids they drive past to excitedly glue their noses to the windows and their moms to honk to high heaven. It's all a wonderful, highly irritating cacophony. Funnily enough, however, Dean somehow gets the feeling that it's the cops garnering all the negative attention, while Dean and Sam – the so-called 'bad' guys – come out relatively unscathed and unnoticed.

Dean chooses to attribute it to his rugged good looks. Just because he'd feel sort of useless otherwise.

They're at top speed when they come across a cluttered four-way intersection, stoplight flashing red, and Dean's pretty sure that's this is it, they're done, and he clutches the seat and makes sure he's buckled in and watches as scenes from his all too short a life flicker across his vision (and man, he never did have that steak) except Sam hits the pedal and drives into the right shoulder and makes a sharp corner turn to the left, nearly crashing into five different cars, and by the end of it all Dean's really rather impressed that it was only five.

...And that they're not dead. Dean's _really _impressed with that.

As it turns out, that four-way intersection was their saving grace. For whatever reason – whether because the cars they almost crashed into are blocking the way, or because they decided to give up and play traffic cops instead – the police car doesn't show up on the rear view mirror again. After ten minutes of driving as fast as he legally can without getting pulled over (because wouldn't that be ironic), Sam takes them to a woodsy road that's paved with rocks instead of asphalt and parks them out of the way next to some bushes.

Dean's brother sighs once – and Dean looks for it, but apparently that's all the acknowledgment Sam's going to give to having just undergone a near-death experience – then takes something from under the seat and fiddles with it. It whines and beeps as he turns the knob, and it's not until Dean hears static and voices going "…Fourteen, do you copy, ten-fifteen in progress, do you copy, ten-fifteen," that he realizes that they're listening in on the _cops_.

"Dude, how do you –" he starts to say, only to get rudely shushed by Sam.

After a while, Sam clicks the radio off, looking satisfied. "All clear," he says, sounding relieved. "No one got hurt."

"That's good," he replies vaguely, still busy listening to his heartbeat, because not everyone can be like Iceman here. Dean saw a freaking tunnel, goddamn it, and way too many freaking lights.

"Okay," Iceman breathes, melting into his seat and closing his eyes for a moment. "That was fun."

Dean stares at him.

"Dude, we were just in a high speed car chase," he says, slowly. "From the _police_."

Sam looks at him uncertainly.

He grins. "That was _awesome_."

Sam laughs, low and unfettered, hazel eyes bright with mirth and excitement. The car rumbles as it starts up again , as if ready for another go.

"Uh. Sam? Are you sure we can just show up back at the road?" he asks, a bit nervously. His hands are still shaking a little, but he's pretty sure it's from the adrenaline. Most of it anyway.

"I told you, man, we'll be fine," Sam says unworriedly, smoothly pulling them out and back on the highway.

"Dude," Dean points out, "they'd have had to be blind not to see our license plate."

Sam actually full-out grins at him. Dean considers notifying the press. "We'll get another one. This one's a fake anyway."

He tries again. "But they know what our car looks like."

This time he gets the usual Sam eye-roll and shrug combo. "They're small town cops, Dean, they're hardly going to start a nation-wide search. It's not like we went on a killing spree."

No, Dean thinks, it's kind of like he's talking to a fricking brick wall.

He takes a breath. Nothing to do but go for it.

"Listen, Sam, I've been thinking." He pauses, winces preemptively. Fuck, this isn't gonna go over well. He clears his throat. "…We've got to ditch the car."

Dean can tell it takes a moment for it to sink in, but when it does Sam whips his head around to look at him incredulously.

...Yup, not well.

"Ditch the – _dude_, we can't ditch the Impala!"

"Why the hell not?" he says exasperatedly. "It's like a big shiny sign of death, Sam! A big, shiny, _really _recognizable sign of death. Honestly, the only way we could be more obvious to the cops is if we paint a skull on it and write 'high on crime' on the windshield.'" Which would actually be kind of kickass, but never mind that right now. "We're not being smart here, like, at all."

"No, man. Forget it."

Dean throws up his hands. "Why not?"

"It's fast, has enough space for all our weapons, and is probably the only thing we've legally owned since I was eight years old," Sam answers readily. "But mostly importantly because I'd die a slow agonizing death if anything happens to it."

Dean tosses a wary glance at the dashboard and inches back a bit into his seat. "What, is that some kind of spell? Keep the car or die?"

Sam stares at him like he's retarded, which makes Dean slightly anxious since Sam's supposed to be watching the road. "No, Dean, because _you'd_ kill me. Slowly and painfully."

The emphatic stress Sam puts into it makes Dean blink. "Aren't you exaggerating here a tiny little bit?" He furrows his forehead. "I wouldn't kill you."

"Sure," Sam says dryly, "that's what you say now, but someday you'll recover your memory and come after me with a machete for touching your one true love. Much as I like saying _I told you so_, I'd really rather keep my head, thanks."

He rolls his eyes. "I'm sure I can -"

"_Machete_, Dean," Sam repeats insistently, looking utterly serious.

Dean opens his mouth, frowns, scratches the back of his neck. Finally he mumbles, "…Man, you weren't kidding about the unhealthy obsession thing, were you?"

Sam gives him a wry smile. "You call it 'baby' and talk to it when you think I'm not around. And when I am, actually, now that I think about it."

He sits there for a moment.

Damn.

"Well, maybe that's exactly why we need to take initiative and fix this," he says determinedly, plowing ahead regardless. "You know, make the before-me realize it's just a car and – " he catches the horrified look on his brother's face and rolls his eyes. "Sam, I'm sure I wouldn't actually kill you. I mean, I think I can safely say I love you more than the Impala."

The younger Winchester blinks. Opens his mouth, closes it. Tilts his head to the side, shakes it a little bit, and just full out stares. He does it again, lather, rinse and repeat, until it finally seems as if Sam's settled on just staring at Dean with none of that other stuff.

As is often the case, Dean has the feeling that there's something going on that he's missing, but for once Sam doesn't look like dark and stormy night and more, well, more like he's just surprised. Stunned, even. Dean replays what he said in his head, but no matter how many times he goes over it, he can't think of anything that isn't incredibly smart and witty and normal. Maybe – well no, more like definitely– Sam is just weird.

Or maybe, he suddenly thinks with a flinch, maybe he's actually hit a nerve. Maybe this wasn't a joke, maybe the Impala actually _is_ the kind of dealbreaker that would get a guy to turn on his little brother even despite all the sacrificing and going to hell to save his life. It doesn't make much sense, but the before-Dean doesn't sound like all that stable a guy to begin with – at least if ghost girl and his brother are to believed, and that isn't a completely unbiased audience, true, but it's all he has to go on.

"…Right?" he ventures, a little desperately, because he'd _like _to have been a stable human being and not a volatile psycho capable of fratricide, he really would.

But Sam keeps on staring like he's going for a Guinness world record, which doesn't bode well.

Is that a no? Dean wonders frownily, and thinks wow, their relationship must have been really messed up if all that stood before Sam and exile in disgrace was a muscle car.

...It _would_ explain a lot though.

The silence stretches for a while. At one point Sam clears his throat, and Dean waits hopefully, but seems like no, Sam's not planning on saying anything just yet.

A full five minutes – a goddamned _eternity_ – goes by.

"Uh, y-yeah," Sam finally says, looking dazed. "Right, yeah. Clearly."

…More silence. Same awkward kind. Dean doesn't know what to think anymore, but asking outright whether he used to be a volatile psycho is a little too blunt, even for him.

Dean clears his throat. Time for a subject change.

"So… ever thought about getting a haircut?"

* * *

_A/N: I'll leave it to you to figure out where Sam's being honest and where he's actually being evasive. Dean misses a lot since he doesn't know Sam very well, plus he's rather naive (so he doesn't think to check, just as an example, why screaming at the top of his lungs in the middle of the night doesn't bring his brother running). I will say that keeping Dean safe wasn't the only reason Sam was avoiding the hard gritty cases... and no, Sam hasn't suddenly decided that bars are fun times.  
_

_I'm really bad with action - dialogue and character development are more my fortes - but I'm trying to get out of my comfort zone. Thus, the car chase scene. If anyone has anything to say about that, criticism or encouragement or what not, I'd very much appreciate it.  
_

_For the record, that flying pig theme? Imagine it in a house instead of a motel room, and you'd get the beach house my friend's family rented two years ago. Creepiest thing ever... there were books, cookbooks, statues, pictures, hanging art... and this weird broom with a face on it hanging on the wall, but I think that was just a quirky southerner thing. I want to hope so, anyway._

_Also, I know 'frownily' isn't a word. I used it anyway. Creative license._

_PS: Totally wrote this before season seven, so the Impala ditching idea? Totally mine. Even if I didn't go through with it, because, come on, it's the Impala._


	9. to know you're there

**_the obeisance of memory_**

* * *

_A/N: So... here I am. The responses for last chapter have been great, thank you guys so, so much. I hope you enjoy this chapter as well, it's, um... interesting. I had a lot of fun writing it though, which should tell you something, I guess._

* * *

They stop at a motel with a broken welcome sign. Dean eyes it wearily but says nothing – the novelty of sleeping in a different bed every night wore off pretty freaking quickly after the initial 'hey, sleepover' excitement. Sometimes he wonders why Sam doesn't buy a place just so he'd have somewhere to come back to, but then with hunts taking him all over the country, Dean supposes it doesn't make a whole lot of sense. Maybe if they take a vacation. Do hunters take vacations? Because they should.

Sam checks them in and tosses him the keys while hauling a duffel bag unto his back. The phone rings – by which Dean means Sam's phone, because there's no one other than Sam (and Bobby) who'd call him of course – and Sam takes it after a quick look at Dean, frowning as he says a 'yello'.

Dean rolls his eyes and enters the room, slinging his bag next to the bed closest to the bathroom. "Dibs on this one," he calls out once Sam comes in, even though Sam has yet to fight him over a bed, which is always a bit of a letdown.

Sam flaps his hand at him in the universal gesture of 'fine whatever can't you see I'm on the phone?' and says, "All right, how are you?"

He flops on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, bouncing a little. The bed's surprisingly springy.

"I don't know, Travis, we're pretty busy."

The bed shivers. Dean glances over.

"…Yeah, you know how it is. Sorry."

He watches Sam pace across the room.

"A woogawoo?"

Dean blinks.

"That's really… wow. Uh, sorry, still don't think we can make it. Bit of a drive from Connecticut." Pause. "Yeah, I realize. There anyone else you can call?" Pause. "No, he's in the shower right now, can't come to the phone… I can ask, but I'm pretty sure he'll say the same." Sam scratches his chin. "Yeah he's okay. All right. Good luck with that." Sam takes the phone from his ear and puts it in his pocket, shaking his head.

"That's funny," Dean remarks, after a moment. "I could have sworn we just passed by Lincoln."

Sam starts, then blows out a sigh. "That was Travis, an old friend of the family. Wanted to get our help on a hunt."

"So why'd you lie?"

He gets a dry look. Been a while since he got one of those. "He's known us since you were in high school. Two seconds with you and he'd figure out something's wrong."

Dean sits up. "Remind me why that's bad, again?"

Sam looks frustrated, for some weird, totally unknowable reason. "Because people don't randomly get amnesia, Dean, and we're _trying_ to hide the fact you rose from the dead. If you want hunters to start coming after you because they think you're an abomination of nature, though, be my guest to tell them God wants you to save the world."

"All right, all right, calm down," he says, holding up his hands in the universal gesture for 'stop giving me a hard time'. "Why can't we tell him it's a spell? Like some witch had the hots for me and got jealous or something."

Sam runs a hand through his long-ass hair as he opens his laptop. "Because there _is _no spell for amnesia. And a hunter like Travis would know it."

He blinks. "That can't be true. Isn't there a spell for everything?"

Sam doesn't look at him, busy double-clicking. Probably not porn, Dean thinks. Is pretty sure. "There are spells to make people forget, all right, but they're nothing like what you got."

"Feel like being a little less vague there, Sammy?"

His brother sends him an inscrutable gaze. "…Let's just say you wouldn't exactly remember how to be a pain in the ass. Or anything, for that matter."

A chill runs up his spine. "Anyway," he says, trying to shake it off, "what the hell is a woogawoo?"

Sam frowns, then rolls his eyes. "A rugaru."

"Yeah, that's what I said."

Another sigh. Sam turns to the laptop again. "It's similar to a werewolf, in that it spends most of its life as a human. But at some point – late twenties, early thirties – it starts craving meat, and lots of it. Eventually it's so hungry it starts turning on humans. Becomes a cannibal, gets a new look, superpowers, the whole nine yards."

"Yeesh," Dean shivers. "Okay, glad we didn't take that one."

"Yeah, probably for the best. Not sure you're ready for that yet. Travis is gonna have a rough time."

"Feel bad for it, though," he thinks aloud. "Can you imagine what that's like, thinking all your life you're human, and then suddenly finding out you're a man-eating monster? Must suck loads."

Sam shuts his laptop, gets up. "Probably," he replies. "I'm gonna go powder my nose, you mind?"

…

Okay, so Sam doesn't actually say that. What he does say is that he's found a hunt – a black dog, he says, and of course doesn't bother to explain why they've suddenly become Animal Control – and is gonna go interview some witnesses.

Except Dean knows that if Sam was actually going to do that, he would have forced Dean to come along, because Dean needs practice at being an outlaw, you know, he can't just lounge around and watch daytime TV, no sirree. And on the way Sam would have quizzed him to death and lectured him about how messing up would land them in serious trouble and been all _no, Dean, being pretty won't get you out of jail_. So, it's probably a safe bet that he's off to call his girlfriend.

Dean wonders why it's all such a big secret, unless before-Dean didn't know about it either, or maybe he knew the girl and didn't like her and Sam wants to avoid the drama, or maybe… maybe there isn't a girl at all.

...Huh.

He scratches his arm nerv – uh, because it itches. "Um, Sam?" he blurts, watching Sam finish getting his stuff together and salting the window (the things you get used to, jeeze).

His brother doesn't turn, but makes that weird bobbing movement with his head that means he's listening. "Yeah?"

He hesitates, fumbles through it. "You know… uh, if there's something you need to tell me, you – you know you can, right?"

Sam's shoulders stiffen. His hands stop what they're doing, suddenly still. He faces Dean, expression unreadable.

Shit. "Um. Look, I don't know what I was like before, you know, but at least right now I'm a pretty laid back guy. Like, tolerant and stuff. So if you had something you didn't want me to know because I uh, because you thought I'd… react, well, just think it over."

Quietly, "Think what over?"

"Sam," he says seriously, "it's obvious something's bugging you big time. It won't cost you a thing to be honest, all right? It might even be good for you, letting it out and all. Secrets cause stress and pent-up aggression, you know."

Sam looks at him blankly. "…Is that from Oprah?"

"Dude, focus." Please, like that's a crime.

Sam sighs, expression hardening somehow. "Okay. What are you talking about, Dean?"

He has to tread carefully here, Dean knows. This conversation's never easy – at least if daytime soaps are to be believed, and that and Oprah are all he has to go on. "I know you think you have to be all stoic and shit, and I get it, okay, but you don't have to go through it alone. I'm your brother, man, I don't care about… uh, whatever. I mean, I'm not rushing you to tell me," he says hastily, "take your time and God, go easy on the details, but, just, think about it."

If he didn't know better, he would say Sam looks torn between being completely baffled and scared shitless. "How – Dean, if – whatever Bobby told you, I'm not using them anymore. I – I promised – "

Dean scrambles his head trying to figure out how to take this. Or rather, how to respond. He can't imagine Sam ever being like… like _that_, using - but then he's only known the guy for a couple of months. True, it's kind of hard to fit it into his image of Sam, but if Sam says this is how it is, who's he to judge?

His brother looks so distressed that Dean finds himself saying, "It's okay, I believe you," which for some reason seems to both relieve Sam and confuse him even more. Still, it shuts him up, so Dean's not complaining.

...Dean suspects they're both relieved when Sam mutters a bewildered 'thanks?' and practically runs out the door.

0000

He sighs, absently scratches his arm.

So much for talking and getting Sam to open up, that went kinda terrible. Uber terrible, considering he scared his brother off so badly the guy even forgot to take his phone. And all he'd wanted to do was just get Sam to loosen up a bit instead of being all dark knight all the damn time. Seriously, it won't be the end of the world if he'd just trust Dean a little.

He starts when he realizes his eyes are fixated on Sam's cell.

_No, man, look away_, he tells himself, trying to stare at a particularly horrid rendering of a kid on a bicycle on the wall (what is it with those hotels?) instead. _Sam would totally kick your ass_.

…Except it's also totally Sam's fault for bailing and forgetting his phone and keeping secrets because he thinks Dean is a narrow-minded bigot. So really, you could say the guy has it coming.

Dubious decision made, he walks over to pick it up – after making sure their car is nowhere in sight, of course – and flips it open. Scrolls down to received calls, but aside from Dean's number there's mostly just this one other one he doesn't recognize, and he gets the feeling that it's whoever Sam's so bent on hiding from him. So Sam's probably telling the truth about not using - right, let's not think about that.

Sadly, it's probably a bad idea to call and see who picks up, since Dean's pretty certain that Sam's on the way to meet them, and it might be weird to have Sam's phone call Sam's friend while Sam is right freaking there.

So that's no good. He checks the inbox to see whether Sam's got any interesting messages, but they're all pretty dry, like '_u have 5 min'_ or '_2nite b there_,' and a couple from a while back are more in the vein of _'gimme cofee u btch_', which is only vaguely more interesting.

Last resort – voicemail. Dean goes through the contact link and clicks, promising himself that he'll hang up if Sam has any new messages (after all, it'd be kind of a dead giveaway he's playing around with Sam's phone).

But even though Sam has a lot of messages, it turns out Sam's pretty good with deleting his new ones – well, either that or he's never missed a call, which isn't likely (but then again, this _is _Sam) – because there's only one recent message about some haunting in Alabama from last week.

And the rest… the rest are from before May. Which is – Dean doesn't even know what that means. So he just holds the phone to his ear, and listens.

0000

It's all from just one person, and somehow the voice sounds both incredibly familiar and strangely foreign.

...It takes him a ridiculously long while to realize it's his own.

0000

_"Hey, it's a quarter past twelve, man, isn't the library closed yet? Anyway, I don't think UPenn's library's going to have anything on crossroad deals, and I seriously doubt pulling another allnighter is going to save me. So this is just to warn you that I'm coming over to pick you up and I better not hear any whining. It's way past your bedtime. See you in ten, bitch."_

0000

_"…Do you mean, you don't have any flamethrowers? What kind of freaking arms dealer doesn't have a freaking flamethrower? I have a wendigo in Minnesota I gotta take care of, man, I don't have time for – wait, hold on a sec, my cell's on – "_

0000

_"I don't even fucking care anymore, you do NOT get to drink slushies in my car. I swear, this is the last fucking time we're stopping at Seven Eleven. It's going to take me forever to get this stain out, you asshole, so guess what you're doing when you come back? That's right. Fucking owe me for this."_

0000

_"Bitch, pick up a magazine while you're out, will ya? They only have Housekeeping and Cycling in this crappy clinic, and I'm getting tired of watching Leno. Also, there's a really hot nurse here, practically tailor made for you - really tall, likes books and walks on the beach... it's like a sign from God saying 'go get laid, Sam Winchester'. I'm giving her your number, you can thank me later."_

0000

_"The – _static –_ fuck, Sammy, I – _static_ – ghost,_ _broke my fucking -" _

0000

_"Heeeey Sammmy! What's up man? There's this – what's your name? Nice – Ally chick, says she wants to meet you. Trust me__, bro__, you WANT to meet her. Stop dicking around on your laptop and get over here. You don't want to miss this – hey, do that again – "_

0000

_"Sam – Sam, I know you're mad, but I… damn it, get over it, will you? I'm not – this is my last year, Sam, you can't… you can't fucking pull shit like this, you can't. I'm gonna call again, pick up the damn phone this time."_

0000

There are more – must be more than twenty of them, all in all, each one a slice of life he doesn't remember, each one equally trite and probably really insignificant even at the time.

Except somehow, his brother had known. His brother had known, and saved them, creating a weird poor man's version of a scrap book that he can always carry around with him like a goddamn safety blanket. And who knows how many times Sam's listened to these messages, listened to a dead man's voice asking him to get a magazine or pick up the laundry, trying to pretend his brother is still there on the other end of the line?

…It's too… too fucking sad.

Beyond the burst of guilt, Dean has this sudden strong urge to delete them all – it's him, but at the same time it's not, and it's kind of really freaky. But the whole point was to not leave a trail, to just find evidence of Sam's big secret.

Just… just not this one.

He closes the phone, places it carefully on the table where Sam left it. It looks untouched, like it's never been opened and rummaged through.

Damn it. He sits on the bed, wiping at his sweaty face with his hand.

Dean… he doesn't get Sam, he really doesn't. In the space of five minutes his brother can make him feel completely unappreciated and out of the loop, and then turn a complete 180 and get him to feel like he's… like he's –

"Hello, Dean."

He jumps, then looks up. Castiel's standing in the darker corner of the room, eyeing him with that alien expression he so fondly remembers. Not.

It reminds him way too much of freaky ghost girl. "What the – where the heck did you come from?"

Castiel tilts his head. "I am an angel," he says, like it should be obvious.

And really, the guy's right about that.

Dean stands, because looking up at the angel is kind of intimidating. "Right. Hey uh, I've been meaning to talk to you – well, I wasn't sure how to reach you, exactly – but those seals you told me about, I don't –"

"I'm here to talk about Sam."

He frowns. How is Sam more important than the impending apocalypse, he wonders, but says, "Uh, sure. Shoot."

"Your brother is walking down a dangerous road," Castiel announces. "We are not sure where it leads."

…Okay. What.

"So, what, you guys don't have a built-in GPS?"

The angel grabs Dean's arm. "I will show you the truth," he says, looking deep into Dean's eyes, and around him, the world turns white.

* * *

_A/N: I don't think it's really necessary to tell you that Sam and Dean are totally not on the same page... it's probably pretty obvious what each of them is thinking though, haha. I hope you guys don't think I'm copping out on the rugaru thing - it didn't really make sense that they'd join up with another hunter, especially with Dean being the way he is. I wondered why they never touched on it in the show, because hunters would probably think Dean's the spawn of Satan (except that's Sam, right) for coming back to life, but I guess not all that many people knew he was dead to begin with... ah, whatever. Show, may your plotholes never cease.  
_


	10. isn't faith believing?

**_the obeisance of memory_**

* * *

_A/N: I realize this came pretty soon after the last chapter... but it just came out so quickly I was too impatient to wait. I trust you won't mind. :)_

* * *

The first thing Dean notices is the sudden lack of crappy wallpaper. Then the sudden lack of car horns and yells he's become used to hearing outside of motels. And then, how instead of the smell of Cheetos and cheap cleaning products there's another one of those smells that he somehow knows but doesn't remember, that might be lavender or baby powder or peony. _Some _high-quality detergent, in any case.

And then, kind of belatedly, he notices how his bed has just been replaced with a crib. That has a baby.

"You teleported us into someone's _house_?" he hisses incredulously to Castiel, trying not to wake the sleeping infant. They're standing side by side in the left side of the room, next to a drawer clattered with baby wipes and diapers he hopes are clean. "Dude, get that moral code of yours checked, I'm like eighty percent sure there's something in the Bible about how you shouldn't sneak into your neighbor's nursery."

The angel gives him one of those measuring looks he's used to seeing from Bobby and Sam, that Dean figures means something to the effect of 'how can you say things like that and not fucking remember your own mother's name,' except Castiel's version probably has a lot less swears and a lot more thou's and dost's and 'by Jove's.

"This has already happened," Castiel says though, calmly. "Watch."

He scowls and crosses his arms, but otherwise lets it go, because after all Castiel isan angel, and angels are supposed to be sort of good about not doing things that'd get them sent to hell.

A guy comes in. It's too dark to really see his face, but he's big, kind of wide-set shoulders on him, wearing this cool black jacket with the collar up like he's from a bad action movie. He walks over to the crib, which gets Dean to abruptly shut his mouth after opening it to apologize and swear that really, this is just some angel's idea of a bad joke – because it's obvious he can't see them.

_Castiel made me **invisible**_, Dean thinks to himself, gaping, but not saying anything out loud because for all he knows, this invisibility spell thing doesn't come with a mute button.

He holds himself utterly still, taking his cue from the angel, and tries to breathe really, really quietly.

A blond woman appears in the doorway. "John?" she asks tiredly in between yawns. "Is he hungry?"

The man – John, Dean supposes – turns and raises a finger to his lips. "Shh."

"…All right," she pulls a shoulder in a shrug and leaves, soft footsteps padding down the hallway.

John turns back to the crib, moonlight glinting off a knife. He lowers it to his wrist.

What. The. Fuck. "Whoa!" Dean yells, springing forward, but Castiel grabs onto his shoulder and pulls him back. "_Don't_ - for God's sake, man, not in front of the baby – let me go – hey lady, come back over here and stop him!"

John doesn't move, just watches his blood drip down.

"They cannot hear you," Castiel says, just like he did when he first met Dean, except this time the reason is pretty obviously not because he knocked people out with his brain.

"Really, I couldn't tell," Dean mutters under his breath (because this is an angel after all, lest ye forget). He watches the baby – pretty cute, if kinda chubby – gurgle a little, big eyes wide open as dark red blood drips into its mouth. "Ugh, that's sick! Cas, you've got to stop him!"

The angel's hold is firm. "I told you, Dean. This has already happened."

"Then why the he-" he swallows the word. Angel, right. "Why are you showing me this?"

Before Castiel can answer, the blonde woman bursts into the room, looking disheveled, hair a messy halo around her head. "Sam! Sammy!"

For a split second, Dean is enormously relieved, but then she gasps.

"_You_," she breathes, and Dean's never heard that tone before, but somehow he knows that it's the kind of _you _that can only mean bad, bad things.

0000

Castiel teleports them – disapparates, makes them go poof, what_ever_ – out just as the room explodes.

Dean bends over and gags, hand covering his mouth. "What - what the crap was that?" he manages when he stops retching, the image of the woman's terrified face – and she saw him, he can swear she _saw _him, her gaze pleading with him to save her, save her kid – right there behind his eyelids, every time he blinks.

"That was Azazel," Castiel informs him, sounding almost sympathetic. The angel takes a stand next to a table, and Dean wonders vaguely whether angels can sit, because he has yet to see this one do it. "The demon who murdered your parents. You killed him two years ago."

He wets his lips. "Couldn't you – why didn't you save them? The woman, the baby - "

"It was not my place," he replies soberly, and Dean can hear regret in the angel's voice.

And really, he thinks, who is he to argue with an angel? With God?

Mysterious ways, right?

He sighs, rubs his arm absently. Runs a hand over his face, because fuck, he's just watched a poor woman get murdered and burst into flame.

Castiel meets his gaze, eyes blue and serious and piercing and unnaturally bright, making his ridiculously disheveled hair look… well, slightly less ridiculous. Dean suppresses a shiver. It almost feels as if the angel is taking out his soul and weighing it on one of those balances for fruit at Safeway.

"And Dean, the baby was saved," he says gravely. "_You_ saved him."

Dean frowns, straightening. He keeps his arm over his middle though, just in case – his stomach still feels a little queasy.

"What are you talking about? I didn't do anything," he shakes his head numbly, still hearing the family's screams ringing in his ears. It sure doesn't feel like he saved anyone.

"You held him in your arms and took him out of harm's way." And really, no one but an angel could say that kind of thing and pull it off.

He hesitates, vaguely remembering seeing movement in the corner of his eye and hearing _Take your brother outside as fast as you can_, but he'd been too focused on the woman burning on the ceiling to pay any attention. "I… I don't understand."

Another deep, serious gaze.

"Those people were your family, Dean. That baby was Sam."

It takes a moment for all of it to sink in, his thoughts are a whirlwind of _that's what baby Sam looked like?_ and _Sam and Bobby told me the truth _and _angels can time-travel?_ and wait a second_ –_

"What the _hell_, man!" he snaps angrily, angel be damned. "You couldn't just tell me my mother was burned on the ceiling, you had to fucking _show_ me?"

The guy is so goddamn fucking calm. "You needed to understand."

A tense moment passes where he really, _really _wants to give Castiel a black eye, but then he slumps, arms falling slack.

Angel. Right.

"…Fuck, Castiel," he breathes uselessly, without bite. "Something's seriously wrong with you. Fuck."

"I apologize," Castiel surprises him, sounding actually sincere. "I... miscalculated the effect it would have on you. My intention was only for you to learn the truth and realize the gravity of the situation."

"Consider it realized," he mutters, only a little mollified. His eyes widen suddenly as another realization sinks in. "Wait, that was Sam? So the baby – the blood – Sam drank _blood_?"

"Demon blood," Castiel corrects. "When a human is possessed, their blood takes on qualities of the demon."

Right. "So, what, Sam's a demon now?" he says skeptically. Because hell, he can remember Sam's relief when he said _All clear_, and the kid's so sensitive that one thoughtless word can knock him over and make his puppy eyes (and oh yes, Sammy's got some puppy eyes) all huge and watery. Although try that with a fist or a ghost, and you probably wouldn't be so lucky.

Dean's also relatively sure demons don't eat Lucky Charms, or wear T-shirts with unicorns on them. Kinda goes against the evil vibe, or so at least he'd like to think.

…Point is, if Sam's a demon then Dean is a toaster.

"No," he hears, and squelches a sigh of relief, because the affirmation's still good to hear. The angel pauses. "But he _is_ in danger of becoming something other than human. We are unaware of Azazel's reasons for giving your brother his blood, but it clearly has awakened in Sam certain powers."

Dean frowns. "Powers… like Superman?"

Castiel gestures, making Dean abruptly notice their surroundings. He'd been so caught up in the images of Azazel cutting his veins and the terrified look on the blonde's – on his _mom_'s face, the despair and horror on her husband's – Dad, _Dad_ – and the calm, innocent, wide-eyed baby Sam, that he hasn't looked around at all.

They're standing on the second story of some kind of warehouse, there are crates all over the place and there's that general musty nastiness in the air that reminds him of Home Depot – and yeah, no idea how he knows that. The place is huge, ceiling so high and walls so far apart that sounds get lost somewhere in the middle. The floor they're standing on is just a cheapass grating that stops abruptly in midair, with only a rail between him and the need for a spatula to peel him off the ground floor.

And hey, there's Sam.

Standing next to him is this hot dark-haired chick – so hey, maybe he was wrong about Sam being gay, and if he is then Sammy has a damn _fine_ taste – and in front of him is this guy who kinda looks like a used car salesman gone nutso, because he has this weird tension in his face and lines that remind Dean of the Joker. Plus he hugs the wall like it's his long-lost teddy bear, which doesn't really convey all that firm a grasp on sanity.

"What are they doing?" Dean asks Castiel curiously.

Castiel doesn't answer, does a little head movement instead which probably signifies something like _just watch, you heathen _(well okay, the last part is probably only a product of Dean's overactive imagination, but the rest is more or less spot on), and stands next to him to observe as the trio have their little hostile conversation.

The used car salesman guy laughs loudly enough to reach them, a smug and reckless glint lighting in his beetle-like black… holy shit, they're _black_.

"Damn, is that…?" he murmurs under his breath, astounded.

"Demon," Castiel nods. "Yes."

Sam's reaching out with his hand. He fists it, and the sales- er, demon starts groaning and moaning and shaking against the wall, and if Dean didn't know better he'd say it almost looked like he's having a massive –

"It's too late, Winchester!" the demon shouts hoarsely, words coming out in what seems to be a lot of pain. "She already knows he's with you!"

Sam narrows his eyes and actually growls, squeezing his fist even tighter.

Dean flinches when the demon gives a scream, throwing back his head. This huge mass of… black, leaves from its mouth as the demon coughs, floating to the ground and goes _through_ it, almost.

The salesman guy (he figures the demon's gone now) slumps over from where- from where Sam had been forcing him against the wall, and the girl kneels beside him, practically shoving two fingers into his throat.

She shakes her head.

Sam curses, punches the wall. The girl says something and Sam replies, but Dean can't make out what it is from where he's standing.

"This is what we need you to stop," Castiel says next to him, and all of a sudden they're back in the motel room, no sign of them ever having left except for the lingering dirty Home Depot feeling on Dean's hands. "Sam can't continue the way he has been. There's no telling where using these abilities might lead him."

He sits on the bed, resting his forearms on his knees, looking at the ground intently. His shoulders feel heavy, weighted with something he can't see. "He just exorcised a demon, Castiel," he replies, all of a sudden tired. "I thought – I thought that was a good thing."

"These powers are not a force of good, Dean. They are just as evil as their source, and would only corrupt your brother as he employs them."

He glares at the ground. "But - "

Castiel puts a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look up. "Why do you think he has been keeping this a secret from you, then?" he asks gently, making far too much fucking sense than is fair, damn it. "Sam knows what he's doing is dangerous. He's ashamed of it, which is why he hides." He pauses, then goes on quietly, "You just saw him end a life, Dean, with nothing more than his will. That is not a power any human should possess."

He feels his face crumple. He curls on himself for a second, holding his head in his hands, because this, _this _is Sam's big secret?

"But this – this doesn't make any sense!" he says desperately, looking up at Castiel now, wishing for reality, some other reality, to come back and take him away any second now. "It's not supposed to– I thought he was just a gay drug addict, not – not the next Darth Vader! What the _hell_, Cas!"

...And the worst thing isn't even that apparently Sam doesn't even need to touch Dean to snap him like a twig now, but that Sam had _told _him he wasn't using them. And yeah, at the time Dean had thought Sam was talking about gay hookers rather than demonic superpowers, but Sam looked so sincere, so fucking _sincere_, while really he'd just been lying to Dean's _face_.

_Not using them, my _ass_. _

The whole trust thing? Flying right out the window.

"I understand this is a lot to think about," Castiel says, and somehow his hand is comforting instead of incredibly patronizing. If it weren't for him being the unofficial godly messenger of horrible news, Dean thinks he might actually be a likable guy. "But Dean, you have to stop him. You have to stop Sam."

"You're the angel, you stop him," he retorts childishly and pulls away, still feeling the betrayal. Suddenly he thinks back to the diner, and God, Sam's been lying to him from the moment they met.

"No. It must be you."

He throws up his hands, gesturing wildly. "He has mind powers, Cas! Mind powers from _hell_! How the _fuck_ am I supposed to work with that?!"

He considers feeling bad for cursing in front of an angel, or accidentally giving him a nickname, but as always, Castiel is unruffled, so he decides to just not worry about it anymore.

Freedom of speech, bitches. He's fucking _owed_, is what it is.

"You will have to find a way. You are his brother."

"Well – well fuck that!" Dean shouts, stumbling over his words. "I'm not his goddamn keeper!"

Castiel wrinkles his forehead. "You don't mean that," he says, but he sounds almost curious. "Don't you want to save him?"

Dean notices he's biting his lip, makes himself stop before he can taste blood. "Make Bobby do it," he mutters finally, hating how sullen he sounds, like some kind of petulant teenager. He looks out the window, doesn't see a black muscle car anywhere. "Sam listens to Bobby. Not me."

_Me, he lies to_, he adds in his head, just because there's no way he's going to let himself sound like a self-pitying little bitch out loud. But it feels fucking shitty to realize just how alone he is. Without Sam and Bobby, he has no one.

And apparently, he doesn't even really have that.

"You're the only one who can get through to your brother, Dean. And so you must."

There's something in the tone that has Dean looking up.

Castiel is standing tall, shoulders back, eyes suddenly cold and old and ruthless. If he squints, Dean can barely make out the dark shadow of wings on the wall.

"Because if you can't stop him, we _will_."

0000

Castiel leaves somewhere between blinks. His words rattle inside Dean's head, _don't you want to save Sam?_ and _we will_, and in the end he has to fall unto the bed and clamp a pillow onto his face because he has a goddamn awful headache.

Also because he feels like screaming.

...Sure, yeah, he feels a little like an emotastic teenager when he does it, but as far as ways of venting your frustrations go, it's probably healthier than, say, punching your brother in the face.

Still, when Sam comes back toting Chinese takeout and a sheepish apology for taking so long, it's a damn near thing.

* * *

_A/N: So a couple of you were wondering where I was going to go with the whole Sam-has-creepy-demonic-powers revelation. Some of you might have thought Dean would be cool with it and join up with Sam despite what Castiel says and kick some major demon ass. You might have imagined it to go somewhat like this:  
_

"Hey Sam, so I hear you got some seriously powerful demon mojo."

"Shit - I mean... nay, Dean, wherever might you have heard such a thing?"

"No man, it's cool. Seriously, I think it's awesome."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

*insert brotherly hug of affection* *Some manly tears may be involved*

*sniffle* "This relieves me greatly. Not confiding in you was a dreary weight on my soul."

"No problem, Sam. I totally understand. And stop talking like that, for God's sake, you're not freaking Shakespeare."

"Oh, fine. So what now?"

"Well, now you bend this spoon for me."

"_Dean_!"

"What?"

*long-suffering sigh* "...Only if we get to go kill Lilith after."

"Yeah, yeah. Spoon, bitch."

*sigh* "Fine."

*spoon bending*

"Oh my God that's FREAKY... do it again."

*flash forward to the Impala*

"Oh, um, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"...Thanks. You're the best big brother ever."

"You're welcome, Sammy. It was but a pittance."

_(I can't believe I actually put effort into that. A five minute effort, granted, but still.)_

_...Awesome as it would have been, though, I couldn't __really __see that happening. I hope this didn't let you down any, and that it was a believable enough progression to feel natural. Because of his amnesia, Dean's lost a whole lot of the skepticism (in some aspects, anyway) and hardness that made him who he is, so he trusts Castiel's word as being fact and final a lot more than he does on the show, mainly because of the angel thing. At least, that's my thinking. And of course there's also the thing where Sam's lie had nothing to do with Dean being a homophobic prude and everything to do with trusting Dean. Sam is, after all, one of the only two people in the world in Dean's life, and to learn that his brother has been hiding something like that will understandably rattle Dean a bit. _

_Again, my rationale. Feel free to disagree.  
_

_Also, there's a 60% chance of Bobby making an appearance next chapter... I swear it wasn't on purpose, although I do think Bobby's awesome.  
_


	11. just one beat away

**_the obeisance of memory_**

* * *

_A/N: So I was in a weird mood when I wrote half this chapter, and most of the next. I'm not sure exactly how they work, if at all - at least writing wise. Just to warn you though, they might be a little heavier than you've come to expect from me.  
_

* * *

"Everything all right?" Sam asks. He sends Dean a bewildered look - the same one he's been sending for the past three days.

Dean ignores it - pretty much just like he's ignored it for the past three days. "Yeah," he says shortly, hefting his shotgun – Before-Dean's shotgun – and flashlight closer. A branch takes a swipe at his head as he passes through. Damn nature. "Just peachy."

"If you're sure," Sam says sarcastically, because Sam would never outright say _what the hell's crawled up your ass_? but he sure as fuck will imply it.

Then again, Sam's a lying liar who lies. Who knows what he would or wouldn't say? Not Dean, that's for sure.

…Maybe not even Before-Dean.

Sam makes a gesture with the hand holding the flashlight and they split up, Dean taking the right side of the road – the one closer to the graveyard – and Sam the left. Splitting up for real would just be stupid when you're chasing a Black Dog (so now Dean knows that's capitalized), which can apparently materialize at any moment, anywhere.

Like now. And here.

"Fuck," he grunts out as the black thingy with glowy eyes – it's night, for Pete's sake, dark things don't exactly stand out – appears out of the ground in front of him and goes for his throat. His hands fumble the flashlight and it falls, sputtering out, and both hands go for the shotgun, barely taking a second to aim before shooting Blackie (whatever it is, it doesn't even _sound _like a dog) out of this world.

At least for a couple of seconds.

Sam runs over to him, his own shotgun smoking. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he says, trying to slow his gulps of air. Sometimes he thinks he'll never get used to the 'shit your pants' moments in hunting.

His brother – lying brother, lest he start to forget – claps him on the shoulder, takes a stance to his right. "At least now we know that Mrs. Whitman was telling the truth. There isa dog on this road."

"Don't know how she thought that thing was a lost Schnauzer, though," Dean huffs back, trying to calm his racing pulse. "That thing was bigger than you, and you're a fucking Bigfoot."

"Thanks, Dean, that was lovely," Sam retorts wryly. Then adds wisely – always another _fucking_ lesson - "People see what they want to see. You'd be surprised what they can think of when they see something they don't understand."

Dean thinks about his old theory that involved drug addict Sam sleeping around with gay hookers. How that was proven wrong.

"Think I have an idea," he mutters under his breath.

"What was that?" Sam asks, eyeing the graveyard cautiously.

He coughs uncomfortably. "I said, uh – duck!" he shouts, just in time for Sam to roll away from the Black Dog's snarling attack.

Blackie circles them warily, growling a growly kind of… growl (he's not some kind of poet, okay?) that makes goosebumps go up Dean's arms. It doesn't help that all he can see are glowing red eyes floating above the ground like two creepily coordinated fireflies.

"Switch to consecrated iron rounds," Sam orders lowly, his hand reaching behind him for the steel-head hatchet he'd slung behind his back, one of the only weapons that can harm a Black Dog, though it won't be enough to kill. "I'll cover you."

His hands are steady while Sam baits Blackie and swings at it, trying to dismember what corporeal limb he can without much success. Dean tries to hurry up, not take too long. Sam's depending on him.

He hears a snarl and looks up to see the red eyes and snout (huh, so it _is _a dog) scant inches in front of him. Instinctively he drops down to his butt, landing hard and just in time for Sam to shoot it incorporeal again.

"Sorry!" Sam calls tensely, and Dean just waves at him dismissively in a 'no worries' kind of way. His chest stings from the scratches the dog had managed to get in with its very corporeal claws, but they don't seem too bad, more like nuisances than anything else.

He gets to his feet quickly, bullets loaded and ready, and stands a couple feet apart from Sam, eyes darting from shadow to shadow, trying to find Blackie before Blackie finds them.

And seriously. If it hadn't been for Castiel and the whole 'chosen one' business, Dean would swear on his mother's grave (not like that would mean all that much, but you get the point) that the world has it in for him, and bad. It's like the Dog is _targeting _him, the way it almost ignores Sam and goes for Dean like a fat girl goes for a particularly delicious crème brulee.

He runs, dodges, shoots, misses, runs some more, shoots again, but Blackie finds him at every turn, barely giving him a second's reprieve. He collects little grazes and bruises from ducking teeth and falling on the asphalt, and it's all pretty fucking annoying.

Dean decides to make a stand, screw Blackie and this stupid game of tag. He gets into a fighting stance, keeping an eye on Sam's back as his brother does the same thing to his right, and watches the ground for sign of dog.

Say what you will about Black Dogs – that they're ugly, that they smell, that they can't be housetrained – but if nothing else, it's obvious what they're dealing with here is a smart son of a bitch.

Dean's so ready, so on edge, so prepared to blow Blackie away, that when he hears Sam yell out it takes him a precious second to get that he's been played.

Sam falls as the Dog lunges at him, barely managing to stick the handle of the hatchet in between its jaws in time, and that gets him locked in a struggle of strength that he's most likely not going to win, big and muscled as Sam is.

"Leave it, Sam!" Dean shouts harshly, loping around the two, waiting for a clear head shot. The Black Dog's body keeps shifting in and out of the physical plane (or _whatever_) while its snarling mouth stays stuck on the handle, and with the way the massive thing is tossing Sam around, trying to get free, there's no way Dean can shoot without risking shooting Sam. "Let go!"

But Sam stubbornly hangs on to the hatchet, only once glancing at Dean as if to make sure he's staying back. Blackie flails its head and roars, and there's the sharp crunch of wood as the hatchet breaks clean in half. Sam's eyes widen, and he screams out when the Dog's teeth dive and bite down into his shoulder, hard.

And that's when Dean decides he's had enough, and shoots fucking Blackie between the fucking eyes.

0000

Getting Sam to his feet proves to be, well, unpleasant. The guy keeps shoving at Dean's hands and insisting that he's fine, and Dean keeps telling him to shut up, and until Sam finally gives up and presses a hand down on his wound instead, letting Dean put Sam's other arm over his shoulder so he can haul his brother's incredibly heavy six-foot four frame up, it's been almost ten minutes since Blackie went bye-bye.

It's a long walk to the car. When they finally get a move on in the Impala, Sam's back to swearing he's all right, and that really, driving to the hospital is completely, utterly unnecessary.

"Shut up," Dean repeats tightly, knuckles white as he grips the wheel. His eyes keep sliding to Sam's shoulder – he's never seen so much blood. "Shut the fuck up."

"We can't afford to go to the hospital," the stupid idiot ignores him. Sam's tan leeches off his skin as he talks, leaving him unnervingly white and pale. "The IDs - I'm awake and talking, Dean, we've both had worse. I can handle a bad shoulder."

"So handle it until I get you to the ER."

"Dean." Sam's voice is pained, and yet somehow he still manages to sound gentle and commanding. "Drive us back to the motel. I can patch myself up."

"But –"

"You know me, I'll be difficult until I get my way," Sam breathes hard, free hand gripping Dean's arm entreatingly. "The – the quicker you get us there, the sooner… the sooner I can take care of this."

The road's straight. Dean shuts his eyes for a second. He opens them, glares at the highway, kicks at the pedal.

"You pass out on me, it's 911. You get that? ID or no ID."

Sam nods.

0000

The leprechauns on the wall - this motel's theme is St. Patrick's day, apparently - grin down at them as Dean lugs Sam inside the room and drops him into the bed. He goes into the bathroom, gets out a couple of sad white towels and thrusts them at Sam, then takes the med kit from Sam's duffle bag, dumps everything inside it out onto the sheets.

He cuts Sam's shirt off, leaving it gaping where some nasty scratches and puncture wounds are oozing blood and pus. If he had been even a second slower...

His mind's somewhere else as he cleans them up, and still on automatic, he goes back into the bathroom, throws the towels into the sink.

A pained grunt has him running back.

"...You fucktard," Dean marvels, staring at the small, even stitches Sam had gotten in before he'd given himself away. What kind of idiot stitches his own shoulder when there's someone perfectly capable not five feet off?

Sam's large hands waver shakily, the big eyes squeeze shut in pain. Dean gently shoves Sam's hands off and finishes the work. It's crude, ugly stuff, and Dean sincerely hopes – probably in vain, seeing the line of work they're in – that he won't have to do it again for a long, long time.

Finally he's done. The black stitches look ugly and unnatural on Sam's shoulder, but they're a damn sight better than the unattractive, wide open flaps of skin and cut muscle from before. The head wound seems pretty minor, and Sam's color is better, too. A couple of pain pills later he's conked out, mouth open like it always is when he's sleeping.

Dean gives him a couple of hours each time before waking him, pulls up a chair and the laptop and stands watch to make sure the stupid fuckface doesn't keel off in the middle of the night. Or day, because Sam sleeps like a stone for a clean thirteen hours, interruptions for head check-ups ("What year is it? No, not that one-") and breakfast ("You are going to finish that chocolate chip pancake, Sam, or so help me...") aside.

"What time is it?" the bastard finally yawns, wincing as the movement budges his shoulder.

Dean blinks back blearily from his chair, having decided only a couple of hours ago that Sam was probably not going to die while he slept. As he catches the yawn from his brother – bastard – his eyes snag on the bandages, and suddenly Dean's head is as clear as a vegan restaurant in the heart of Texas.

Which is pretty fucking clear.

"Time to tell me what the hell was going on out there last night, I'm pretty sure," he says pleasantly, sitting up and folding his arms.

Sam blinks, forehead scrunching up like he doesn't get where this is coming from. Dean would almost feel sorry for him, except for the fact that, oh, oh yeah, Sam is a lying douchebag. "What are you talking about?"

"You held on. When Blackie came at you. You had a chance to get away, and you fucking blew it."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Blackie?"

"The dog, all right?" he snaps, not really up for tangents. "Damn it all, Sam, I told you to let go so I could get a clear shot, and you freakin' ignored me. What the hell were you thinking?"

His brother blinks again, slowly.

"Ah," he mumbles. "I thought… I thought you were trying to do something else."

"Something - like _what_?" his voice rises incredulously. "What the hell _else_ could I have been trying to do?"

"Forget it." Sam quirks his lips, a lame attempt at a smile. "I messed up. Sorry. Made you worry."

This kid is seriously going to give him a heart attack someday, he thinks dazedly. And when he says someday, he means someday in the near future. It's a damn good thing Dean's around to keep his ass in line, otherwise…

…Otherwise…

No. Sam wouldn't - he _wouldn't_.

"Dean?"

Would he?

"You thought I was going to jump in," Dean says numbly, a sick feeling growing in his stomach. "You thought I'd try to distract it while you got away."

Sam winces, but this time Dean's pretty sure it's not because of his shoulder. "No, I – no!"

"Are you – are you out of your _mind_?" he whispers disbelievingly. "You could have been killed! You could have been _killed_, Sam!"

"It wasn't – it wasn't like – Dean, I'm fine!"

He grips the idiot by the arms, shakes him despite the shoulder, because he doesn't care, he doesn't fucking _care_, Sam almost _died _today. "Get this through your giant head, Sam, I'm not your brother! Like, I am_,_ but you can't…" he falters, goes on lamely, "you just can't act like I'm _him_, all right? Because I'm not. I'm me."

Sam avoids his gaze, rolls his eyes. "Of course you're you, Dean – "

"No, Sam, _listen_ to me," he interrupts desperately. He lets go, sits back on the chair, one hand on his forehead as a massive headache starts making itself known. "I'm not… I'm not the one who took care of you all these years, okay? I never tucked you into bed, I never gave you your first beer. I'm not the guy who sold himself to hell for you, Sam, someone else did that. And I'm sure he was great and all, but Sam, I'm – I'm not him."

Sam's expression is one that Dean would really rather not read, so he doesn't, is the one to look away this time. Maybe he pretends to be a hero, all these days with Sam, but that's all it is.

Just make-believe.

"Dean, you _are _him. You're my brother," Sam says, leaning in, and this is what Dean meant when he refused to consider the possibility of his brother being a demon, because no demon can sound like he's on the verge of losing everything he has and so utterly helpless to stop it.

It feels horrible, like a crime, to make Sam sound like that. But the fact of the matter is that it's also true, and that Sam just doesn't get it, and he's going to get himself killed expecting Dean to be some kind of messiah with a martyr complex when really he's just a guy who sometimes shoots monsters and likes getting laid every once in a while.

And that's not something Dean's willing to have on his conscience.

He sighs, counts to three in his head. Ten's way too long and fucking awkward.

"I… yeah," he says uncomfortably, trying to let Sam down easy, not exactly sure how. "But it's not the same, and you can't pretend like it is, Sam, you can't. I'm not denying who I was, okay, but I can't be that person anymore. I wouldn't even know how to start." He takes a breath, and bursts out desperately, "I'm _me_, Sam, you get that? Not your Dean. I know I... I know I must act like him sometimes, but that's just – I don't know, coincidence. You can't – you can't act like I'm going to save you, Sammy."

Sam opens his mouth, and Dean hurriedly cuts in, eyes fixed on the ground. His fingers clench on his knees, and his mouth feels tight, out of place on his face. "I know I'm your brother, and it's not like I don't care, you know? But you gotta cut me some slack, Sam, because when's all said and done, I just met you a few months ago, and I don't know if I can throw myself in front of a gun or a Black Dog for you, Sam, I just… I'm not that good a person."

He waits nervously, heartbeat loud in his ears, but there's nothing but silence. Sam might as well not be breathing, for all the sound he makes.

"So just…" he falters, voice small, "just wanted you to know. So last night doesn't happen again."

He chances a glance at his brother, and can't stop himself from flinching.

"Is that it?" Sam finally asks after the heavy silence, head down, body unnaturally still. His voice is strangely unreadable, emotionless. "Or do you have something else to add?"

Dean can't help but stare. It takes him a second to force something out.

"Ah, no," he mumbles, and stares at his hands. "That's it."

Sigh. "I see."

Dean's head snaps up as he hears the door shut, only barely managing a glimpse of Sam's silhouette before it closes.

He stays where he is for a long moment, frozen in place, and doesn't even feel himself getting out his cell and punching a number.

_"Yeah?"_

For some reason hearing the old man's voice unfreezes his joints, and Dean slumps back on the bed like a twelve year old girl in a major crisis, like getting an F or running out of nail polish.

No one's here to see him, though, so fuck it.

"Bobby. Hey."

"_Dean? What's wrong?_"

Dean blinks in surprise, taken off-guard. "Uh…" he lets out, voice suddenly thick, and looks around, as if the leprechauns on the wall will tell him what to say. He's a little disappointed when they don't.

"…_What happened to Sam?_" Singer asks perceptively, sounding worried.

Words finally come out.

"I… I messed up, Bobby. Sam's gone."

* * *

_A/N: Dun dun dunnnnn... haha, poor Bobby, he's probably thinking the worst right now...  
_

_ So, Dean's got a bunch of things off his chest, wouldn't you say? I kind of really feel for Sam, he's really getting a lot to digest. Sorry about the Black Dog thing - I warned you, not very good with action scenes here. Still, I hope you sort of enjoyed it, at least.  
_

_Points to whoever figures out what inspired me for that last scene. And hey, I know I kind of promised Bobby... not sure if that last bit counted (probably not), but he definitely will show up in the next chapter. Until I get that up, please review! And thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter, it was really uplifting to read your reviews. I really hope you found this chapter up to par...  
_


	12. to where you are

**_the obeisance of memory_**

* * *

_A/N: Get some popcorn out, you guys, because this one's a long one, and a bit of a roller coaster._

_(I really, really like this chapter, by the way.)  
_

* * *

Bobby's voice is carefully blank. "_Gone?"_

"Yeah," Dean says. "He just left."

_"For the love of -" _There's a deep and irritated sigh. "_What'd you do?_"

Dean flinches. "Nothing! He got – he got hurt, Bobby. Really badly." His mouth opens to say more, but his throat is clogged or something, nothing else makes it through.

There's a pause as Bobby waits for a little while, before he asks cautiously, "_Did you take him to the hospital?_"

The old man's practicality is soothing somehow. Dean lets his body relax. "No, he… Sam said it was okay."

Relief. "_Then don't worry about it. Sam's a smart kid, he knows what he's doing_."

"I know."

Another sigh. "_But?_"

"I… I might have said some things, though, and now he's gone, Bobby, and I don't know if he's coming back. You don't… you don't think he's coming back, do you?"

Pause. He can almost hear Bobby thinking. _"That depends_," he says, and Dean doesn't know whether or not to be grateful that Bobby didn't say 'of course, you nitwit.' _"Is the Impala still there?"_

He wrinkles his forehead, and slowly gets himself to the window to check.

"Yeah," he says in relief. At least he's not stranded in this stupid leprechaun motel. "Yeah, it's here."

Beat. "_…Can you _see_ him?_"

Dean blinks, peers through the blinds, goes to the other window just in case.

"Uh… maybe?"

Dean can hear Bobby mutter something about idiot Winchesters. "_Then go talk to him, nimrod._"

He starts. "What, like right now?"

Another mutter. "_...Too old for this._" _Click_.

Dean stares at the phone, then looks back at what is either a trashcan or Sam's stiff back – hard to tell in this light.

...Yeah. Right.

He hits redial.

First thing he hears is Bobby's sigh. "_What?"_

"What do I say?"

If he didn't any know better, Dean would say that under his typical gruff exasperation Bobby's actually amused. "_Do I look like a goddamn therapist? Tell him you're sorry or something, I don't know."_

"But I'm not sorry."

Man, but Bobby sighs a lot. "_Then pretend like you are, all right? Knowing you, you probably should be anyway._"

Glaring is useless seeing as how the old man isn't even there to see it, but it does make Dean feel a little better. "But I'm _not _sorry," he repeats fiercely. "Bobby, he got himself hurt because I – because he thought I'd jump in and save him! When he can perfectly take care of himself!"

"_Well to be fair, Dean, it's not like that ever stopped you before._"

"So I gather," he hisses. "Does anyone remember I still have _amnesia_? Why would I go to all the trouble of saving Sam when I've no fucking clue who Sam _is_?"

"_Because you do, numbnuts. Sam's your brother_."

Dean kind of feels like breaking something. Really, what is it with hunters and angels and taking things so damn literally? "Yeah, and I don't remember him, Bobby. Besides, we're both adults. He can take care of himself. It's not like I _owe _him."

"_You idiot._" Bobby sounds furious. "_You're family. Family takes care of each other._"

"Family usually doesn't hunt things with really sharp teeth," Dean retorts harshly.

A moment passes. Dean hears another long sigh, and the sound of a chair scraping against the floor.

_"…All right, got me there, kid. When should I expect you?"_

Dean feels himself frown. "Huh?"

"_You obviously can't stay with Sam_," the man points out reasonably. "_You're done hunting._"

For some reason that hits him, hard. His mouth hangs open for a second. "I – I didn't say that – "

"_There's no point in you being Sam's partner if you two aren't gonna to watch each other's backs. That'll just get the both of you killed faster than you can say wendigo."_

He winces. "I never said I wasn't – "

"_Dean. You want to be safe, right? Only way you gonna do that is to stop hunting._"

He bites his lip. "…I can't, Bobby, Castiel says – "

Bobby's voice is almost unnervingly gentle. "_Last time I checked, son, you're just one man, same as any other. No one's expecting you to tackle the apocalypse on your own – and if they do they're idiots, angels or no. Come back to my place, you can stay here. Other people can take care of the seals._"

"But – what about – what about Sam?" he asks in an almost-whisper, eyes fixing on what he hasn't yet decided is his brother. Sam's back can't be that stiff and straight, can it?

"_He was fine before you showed up, and he'll be just fine when you leave. Your brother's a damn good hunter, Dean. Don't worry about him."_

It all sounds so perfectly rational, so perfectly, guiltlessly tempting.

…So why does it feel, at the same time, so incredibly wrong?

"You – I can't stay over at your place forever, can I? I mean – "

"_Sure, Dean._" Again with the weird and out-of place understanding. "_I'll do whatever I can to help you start over. No one has the right to force you to choose this life. You want a fresh start, you got it._"

"You're right," he says, trying to sound confident. "You're right."

"_I know,"_ Bobby replies, matter-of-factly. "_And now that that's decided, all you have to do is go and tell that to Sam._"

His eyes widen. "What?"

"_You don't want him wondering where you've gone, do you?" _comes the reasonable answer. "_And besides, you're probably going to need him to take you to the bus station, 'cause I'm sure as hell not coming over to pick you up."_

"Right," he says slowly. "Wouldn't expect you to."

"_Off with you, then. Call when you're on your way._"

"…Yeah. Yeah. Bye," he says numbly and hangs up, staring at what is definitely, definitely Sam.

0000

Dean lingers for a little bit at the window, when he sees a shiver go through his brother. He then sighs, slowly lets the curtain fall shut and walks the two steps to the door. Opens it reluctantly.

It's cold outside – no wonder, since it's already winter – and he stands there in the doorway for the eternity of a second, before running a hand through his hair and scratching at his shoulder. He looks at his cell phone, makes a face, types '_u fucking bastard_'and presses _send_.

A quiet_ ping! _sounds not a minute later, and Dean flips open the cell again, hits _read_. And then has to muffle what is either a laugh or an outraged growl.

…The bastard actually sent him back a smiley face. A _smiley face_.

He rolls his eyes and sighs again, puts the phone in his pocket. The fucking nerve. The fucking bastard.

He hesitantly makes his way to his brother.

"Here," he ventures bravely, and tries to pitch the jacket he's holding – Before-Dean's jacket – on top of Sam (who's only wearing pajamas, the idiot). It slides off though, so he picks it up again and settles it over Sam's shoulders like some kind of weird-looking cape. "You should probably go inside. Cold can't be helping that shoulder any."

No reply. His words invade the quiet darkness like an unwanted visitor, and he reddens a little. He stands there awkwardly, biting his lip, Sam still facing the street. Dean wonders what face his brother's making, but then he decides he really, really doesn't want to know.

It's not fair. He's not the one who should feel bad. _Sam's _the lying liar.

Dean had just been telling the truth.

He closes his eyes for a second. Bobby is a fucking bastard, he thinks again, even more vehemently.

…Total fucking bastard.

He blurts it all out in an exhale. "Castiel says I have to stop you."

Sam starts. His head jerks a little to the right.

"From using your powers – I know about them, Cas showed me. He says they're evil. He says that if I don't save you, he's going to have to stop you. And… and I don't know if I can save you."

He stops, then, words plugged down his throat just as suddenly as they burst out, and for a little while there's nothing in the air but the sound of crickets and the occasional car zooming down the road. It feels awkward to keep standing, but Dean doesn't know if it'd be breaking some unspoken Sam rule if he doesn't.

He settles for a compromise, settles on the curb a good couple of feet away, far enough that he can say he's sitting by himself, close enough that he can see it if Sam shivers.

Sam's low voice floats across the misty silence between them, words drifting loosely in the air like the plastic bag rustling its way between the parked cars.

"I was ten, the first time you died."

Dean blinks. Turns to stare at his brother.

Whatever he's been expecting – this isn't it.

Sam's head's down, his body still, expression hidden. "We were living in this little town in Illinois. It was winter. Freezing." He curls into himself, rests his forearms on his knees. "Dad hunted by himself a lot back then, left us on our own for days, sometimes weeks. He'd leave us money to tide us over until he came back, then just get in the car and go. We never learned to like it, but it was fine. We were used to being alone."

Sam gazes up into the parking lot, hazy light from the streetlamp painting his face a vague white.

…Dean gets the feeling that Sam's not seeing whatever he's looking at.

"And there was a… pond, behind the schoolyard, iced over before we even moved in. Kids would go play on it a lot, use it as a slip 'n slide. It was fun."

There's something different about Sam's voice now, like pain, maybe, or affection, except it doesn't make any sense at all how one can be mistaken for the other, so maybe it's just all in Dean's head. Maybe Dean's just socially defunct.

But if nothing else, he can recognize the anger pulling on Sam's eyebrows, gone after a second when Dean's brother erases all tell from his face.

"You never liked me playing there to begin with, but when Dad was gone you wouldn't let me even go near the stupid thing." Sam shivers a little, goosebumps climbing up the muscular arms, but the hazel eyes gaze at nothing, barely seem to even register the cold. His voice is hoarse when he talks again. "I… I knew why, I wasn't stupid. But I was stubborn. Angry. My friends made fun of me for doing everything you said and I was… I don't know, I was tired of being the odd one out. So – so this one time, I went to the pond after school, walked right to the middle of it."

His expression twists.

"…You yelled at me. Swore your lungs out. Bribed me with candy. God, you tried everything you could to get me out of there short of pulling me out yourself, but I wouldn't budge.

"I could see it in your face, too, that you didn't want to come get me. You were big for a fourteen-year-old, and it was getting warmer out, the ice couldn't have been all that thick…" Sam's silent for a second, before continuing, "It felt good. Almost… almost like I won something, you know? Like I finally found somewhere you wouldn't go, something my big brother wouldn't do for me. It felt like freedom."

"Freedom?" Dean echoes, and winces. His voice sounds too loud and sharp, like the night only has space in it for round, foggy things.

For Sam, and Sam's story.

"You'd been taking care of me since forever," his brother tells him quietly. The wind brushes his hair into his face. "You made my lunch, did my laundry, made me brush my teeth before school… and you were just a kid, Dean. Just a kid. But you did everything for me, all the time, and it wasn't until then that I realized how wrong it was. I… I'd always just taken it for granted, and you put up with so much, it was…" he falters, the words _fucking scary _ hanging in the air, unspoken.

Dean realizes he's squirming and forces himself to stop. Listening to this is so uncomfortable that for once he's actually glad he doesn't remember anything. God knows how he'd handle listening to this (somewhat monotonous) heartfelt outpour of… stuff, if he did.

Although then they wouldn't be having this conversation in the first place, so.

"Did you fall?"

Sam's head almost snaps as it turns to face him, Sam meeting Dean's eyes for the first time since Dean joined him on the curb. He studies him for a minute, gaze oddly intense, and then his mouth curls, as if he finds the question somehow amusing.

"No," he answers softly. "You did."

Dean's mouth opens, closes. "…Ah."

"You stepped on the ice, and… for a couple of steps," he says distantly, mind clearly somewhere else, "for a couple of steps, you were fine. But then I came closer and you fell, and… and it took too long to get you out." Something climbs over Sam's face, uses it as a battleground. "Your heart stopped. Took two minutes to start up again. Two fucking minutes, Dean." Humorless chuckle. "You had the worst case of pneumonia the doctors had ever seen. And the funny thing is, they said you could have probably gotten off with nothing more than a bad cold, if you hadn't been severely undernourished."

He scrunches up his face, feeling like he's missing something (again). "Undernourished?"

Sam finally smiles, but it doesn't look like any smile Dean's ever seen.

"Dad didn't always leave enough money," he replies simply. "And I had to have my Lucky Charms."

It takes him a moment to get what Sam's telling him.

Holy - holy shit.

"That's -" he starts feelingly, searches for words, and finishes, lamely, "…that's really messed up, Sam."

"We had to leave town after that," Sam adds almost idly, that same unsettling, absent smile on his face. "Took everything you and Dad had to convince them not to send us to a foster home. You said you were anorexic, had some weird self-image issues. That it was all your fault."

Minutes pass before Dean even finds the will to use his voice. "I'm sorry," he says, not even knowing what it is he's apologizing for. "God, Sam, I'm - I'm so sorry -"

For the second time since walking out of their room, Sam meets Dean's eyes, but this time they pierce through him, seem to almost shimmer in the night. "…So when you say I could have died, I understand. When you say you don't want me to save you, I get it. I never wanted you to save me either, Dean, you know? But you never gave me a choice. I never had a choice."

"I'm sorry," he says again numbly, staring down at the asphalt glittering blue and white in the lamplight. God, what kind of hellish life did they live?

"Don't be. It's okay. I do now. Like you said, it's up to me to save myself."

"Sam -"

"It's up to me," Sam repeats, and then nearly smiles again. "I won't do it anymore, okay? Last night won't happen again." He pauses. "Maybe it's a good thing you don't remember," he goes on, clearly trying to lighten things up. "It'll keep you from doing anything stupid."

Dean barely registers the barb. It's not enough, it's not _good_ enough. "Sam, you know it's not that I don't want to save you."

Sam gives that disturbing ironic chuckle again. "…Yeah. I know."

"And I can't make you do anything." God, is that an understatement. "But… but Sam, you gotta stop. With the powers, I mean. Whatever you're doing with that girl, it's not worth it. You're getting the angels mad at you, _God _mad at you, and you're…you're _killing_ people, Sam."

Sam stiffens a little, pulls the jacket closer as if he's finally catching on to how cold it is. "I – I'm getting better. Most of them survive."

"_Most _of them? Christ, would it really hurt you to take the time to say an exorcism the regular way? I know _that _has a pretty good survival rate, at least!"

Sam's hand crawls up to his shoulder, then clutches the coat around him in a death-grip like it's a safety blanket. "You don't get it, I _have _to get better at this. Lilith can't be exorcised, this is the only way I can kill her."

"But I'm _here_," Dean says, in fact not understanding. "I thought – wasn't getting me back from Lilith the whole point? Isn't that why you're doing this?"

Sam's eyes widen, like Dean had just given him the equation for cold fusion or the recipe for blueberry pie ice cream. Or something. It's ridiculous. "I – but, the seals – "

Dean frowns. "I thought the seals were my job?" he says. "And I don't remember Castiel ever saying anything about killing anyone. Stopping the seals from getting broken, yeah, but not killing Lilith. Seriously, man, let's lower our expectations a little here. Isn't she as old as time or something? And super powerful? You really think the two of us can take her out?"

Sam's mouth opens, closes. "And how exactly is that going to work, this plan of yours?" he says finally, sounding half-skeptical, half-tentative. "How are you going to stop this without killing her?"

"I don't know, Cas isn't being really helpful on the subject," he replies honestly. "Guess we'll just have to make it up as we go along."

"That's reassuring," Sam mutters, but he sounds okay. More like the Sam Dean's been getting to know.

"We'll figure something out," he shrugs, and stands. "Now come on, let's get you inside. You gotta be freezing."

"A little," Sam jokes shakily, because his teeth are visibly chattering.

He offers his hand and Sam pulls himself up with Dean's help, grunting a little bit as the movement jostles his shoulder. Dean helps him to the room, keeps the coat from falling to the ground. Putting Sam to bed proves just slightly difficult – apparently a shoulder wound takes a lot out of you, who knew, plus Sam's not exactly a small guy – but Dean gets it over with soon enough, and wraps his brother in the blanket like a hot dog, hoping that will stop the shivering. It'd kinda suck if Sam gets sick on top of it all.

"Dean," Sam says suddenly from inside the mass of blankets, grabbing on to his wrist before Dean can pull it away.

He stops, looks back. "Yeah?"

"So you know. About…"

He frowns, trying to figure out what Sam's talking about. What little he can see of Sam's face is unreadable. "About your powers?" he asks, a little annoyed, because seriously? After all that, did _none _of the past ten minutes sink in?

Sam lets him go and looks away, shifting under the covers. He swallows, Adam's apple moving a bit, before raising his chin and apparently going for it, whatever 'it' is. "I never told you this, but Azazel… Yellow Eyes… he showed me something. About the night Mom died."

Dean blinks, settles back on the chair he'd practically inhabited for the past day. "Oh," he says. "You mean the blood thing."

Sam whitens, his jaw falling slack. "You – you _know_ about it?"

"…Castiel showed me a lot," Dean mutters, unable to stop a wince.

"Right," Sam says slowly. "I see." He tilts his head, looking like he's trying to take this all in for processing. And kinda failing at it.

"What?" Dean frowns, because a blind idiot could see that something's bugging Sam, and whatever he is, Dean's eyesight is just fine.

For once, Sam seems to be just as uncertain as Dean feels. "Are you – so you don't think that I'm – " he blurts awkwardly.

There are many, many ways Dean could finish that sentence, but he decides to let Sam off easy, at least for now. "What, evil?"

Sam looks away.

Dean settles back. "Nah," he says finally. "You're way too fucking angsty." He thinks a little, and adds, "Helps that you keep trying to save people."

He gets treated to a breathless, wobbly Sam laugh. "You're such a dick."

"Aw, sweetheart, you're making me blush," he says easily, and he knows somehow even before Sam laughs again that it's the right thing to say.

…Beats him why, though.

0000

At Sam's insistence – _h__onestly, Dean, I'm pretty sure I'll survive the night_ – he abandons the chair and crawls into his own bed, which is gorgeously comfortable after an entire day of his butt getting spectacularly numb on the rickety motel chair.

He turns off the light – not that it's going to help much, because judging by the blinking alarm clock it's probably going to be light out soon enough. But for now it's dark, at least, and Dean can hear Sam's breaths punctuate the silence like randomly placed commas.

…Not asleep yet, then.

He turns over on his side. "Hey Sammy?"

"Mm?"

He's gonna ask. He's gotta ask.

He stalls. "Um."

Sigh. "What is it?"

Dean clears his throat.

"I get why you couldn't… why you didn't tell me about - all that, but you're not – you'll stop?" he mumbles, maybe sorta holding his breath for the answer. And yeah, kind of pitying Sam for having to decipher what he means from that jumbled mess.

_…You're not going to lie to me again, are you?_

There's enough light in the room for Dean to see Sam close his eyes, then open them to meet Dean's gaze. Something in the kid seems to deflate, or maybe revive, and he runs a hand through his hair, brushing back his long-ass bangs.

"Yeah," Sam says finally. Even smiles an actual, not-scary smile – and for once, Dean is pretty sure there's no secret lingering behind it. "I'll stop. I'm done."

"Good," Dean breathes in relief, and it's okay because it's dark enough that he can deny everything later. Plausible deniability, everyone, it's great. "Good. Thank you."

Sam shakes his head. "Don't thank me," he says, grinning a little sadly, and that's when Dean knows this is for real. "I'm not doing it for you. Or for the angels, or for anybody. This is my choice."

Which, you know what, is completely, perfectly okay with Dean.

0000

His brother pauses, forehead wrinkling. "…I've got a question, though, while we're at it."

Dean raises his head curiously. "Yeah?"

"A couple of days ago, when you were talking about tolerance and pent up aggression… just what the hell were you talking about?"

He stares at Sam for a moment, and then laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

* * *

_A/N: So this is another one of those points where I feel like it could just end right here and I'd be happy. Leaving it on a good note, right? But I have more ideas for this story... which may take a while to write, but you guys won't mind too much, would you? I do really hope you like this chapter._ I _like it a lot. _

_Haha, my favorite part here is Bobby, the big manipulative lug. I'm not sure how IC it is of him to text Dean a smiley face, but I like the idea he would.  
_

_Part of being a writer is writing things and hoping readers will catch it but not actually knowing whether they do. So I don't know how obvious any of this is to anyone, but every chapter has some lines or actions deliberately taken from the Show. Like in the last chapter, where Dean thinks 'mysterious ways, right?' in what is kind of an ironic take on what he actually says and thinks on the show, where he's kinda like 'suck it Castiel' rather than 'oh my god ANGEL'. Or how when checking to see if Bobby's all right he does that little bending-and-catching-the-other-person's-eyes thing he does with Castiel (in what I think is the finale?). I'm not sure if that one was clear to anyone but me though, haha. Anyway, this time I blatantly stole lines from the end of Metamorphosis and gave them my own little twist. Just because I find that entertaining.  
_

_...After writing this chapter, all I can say is... oh, Winchesters. _

_*satisfied sigh*  
_


	13. are you gently sleeping

**_the obeisance of memory_**

* * *

_A/N: Sorry it's taken me so long, everyone! It's my last semester, so things have been a little... hectic, shall we say. I'm supposed to be doing a paper, but hey, I have a responsibility to this story too, right? Right? _

_(sigh)_

* * *

_Stillness. _

_He hums to himself as he throws the line out again. The lake's serene and quiet, and it's nice to just sit here and relax. It's a good day for fishing.  
_

_…But wait a second, since when does he know how to - _

=o=o=o=

_His lips curve into a smile._

_An old man – pedophile, thirty-two counts of rape and sexual harassment, three kidnappings, eighteen murders – whimpers as he looks up helplessly, yellow and black flames and glints of silver reflecting in his eyes. Eyes of a person, eyes of a human, crinkly blue eyes that look like the sea (not that he really remembers what that's like, but sometimes he thinks the salt of sweat and the rush of blood in his ears bring him a fleeting reminder) wide wet eyes that ask and beg and cry and wish for an end, please, just let it end -_

_Whatever. _

_Dean doesn't flinch at the frightened stare, though a part of him wants to, he remembers being… no, no, past that now. When in Rome, after all. Hakuna matata._

_A knife glints sharply in the corner of his eye and comes down slowly to the old man's face, trails along a deep wrinkle between the thin mouth and the hooked nose. He can't hear the man do anything but whimper – a bit of sewing took care of that – just a voice from behind, saying gently, gently now, take your time – _

_ =o=o=o=_

_He's inside a school? At least he thinks it's a school. There's this long hallway with doors, and a trophy case somewhere in the middle, and things he thinks might be lockers lining the sides. So he thinks it's a school. _

_He walks onward, looks at the trophy case. His name is on every trophy and plaque, and he smiles to himself, whistles as he walks further down the hallway. There's a door – for some reason doing a cartwheel is the only to get it open, so he cartwheels once and then, because it's fun, cartwheels again, except he fumbles it and lands on his butt in a patch of velvety green grass that's just a little wet._

_He looks up, squints at the cheerful sun in the sky. There's clouds and shit all over the blue, and the way they're arranged it almost looks like there's a great big castle up there, and hey, he likes castles. _

_…He thinks. Well, it'd be badass to see one, anyway._

_So he spreads his arms like an eagle, starts batting them like a maniac __and__ jumps up and down__– because that's how you fly, okay? – and finally the wind picks up and he's off, making for the castle like it's the second star to the right and all he needs is a tiny blonde fairy to make the picture complete, maybe a couple Lost Boys behind him. Mmm, and a Wendy wouldn't hurt, either. He's always – well, ever since seeing the movie on the Disney channel once when Sam was out 'getting coffee' – liked Peter Pan. Though when you think about it, the green tights are __really __kinda fruity -_

=o=o=o=

_Red. So much red._

_And screaming. _

_His arms are tied down to something and he panics, struggles, hates being confined but he always is now, he always is. His heart gallops in his ears, and that sense of being trapped, caged, that small exquisite taste of what he felt when he woke up in a grave – this is all that and more, magnified like hell._

_Like… He shakes his head, frowns. His thoughts are muddied, lost somewhere –_

_A sound crackles over the screams and he turns his head and sees Sam. A wave of relief hits him, screams fading into the background as if they've stopped (but they haven't) – Sam's here, so whatever this is, whatever this means, it can't be too bad. Or it won't be. Something like that. Whatever - Sam's here, he's here. That's what matters._

_Sam smiles at him, mouth twisted strangely. He's wearing a white shirt and black suspenders, which is pretty odd considering what he knows of Sam, plaid shirts and worn jeans and holes in wretched-smelling socks. Not that Sam has such a great fashion sense usually, but suspenders? Either this is a dream, or Dean's high on something great._

_…Or Sam's high on something great. That works too._

_Sam idly snaps the suspender straps against his torso in an old time movie kind of way. His voice is different, like he's someone else, not that that makes any sense, because who else can Sam be but Sam?_

_"Come on, big brother," Sam drawls lazily, in this way that would make someone desperate for a shower and also want to crawl under their bed. "Time's a-wasting. Get up and carve me a pumpkin, kiddo."_

_He feels like he should be inclined to laugh, like this is funny, pumpkins, or maybe he's supposed to protest being called kiddo, something – but somehow he gets the feeling that that's not what this is about and this isn't funny, it's really not funny at all._

_I can't, he tries to say, straining against whatever's holding him down so damn tightly that feels smooth and sharp and cold (like bones, his mind says but he refuses to listen), and his lips shape the words and breath comes up his throat but no sound reaches his ears, weirdly enough, there's just a dull pain and at the same time a strange lack of sensation in his mouth, and it's almost like maybe his tongue just isn't… isn't –_

=o=o=o=

_He's walking barefoot on the beach – this is cool, he's never been on one before, that he can remember anyway – just strolling, kicking at the sand and things that might be seashells if he looks closer. But he doesn't, the sensation of peace flooding its way through him, and he just trusts that they are what they are. _

_Doesn't matter, either way._

_A woman walks down the beach and laughs as she sees him, tousles his hair and threads her fingers through his. He can't see her face but it's all right, he knows she's pretty. They walk down the beach for a while – there are mountains in the distance, awesome – not really caring about getting anywhere. Wherever they end up is good enough, he feels, and is pretty sure that she thinks so too._

_He suddenly realizes his hand is empty. He turns and she's gone, and the wind carries her throaty chuckle to his ears. He runs around like an idiot all along the beach, grin splitting his face as he looks for her, and after a while he glances at the ocean and of course she's right over there, laughing at him as she splashes around in the waves, impish smile spread open on her face. She waves at him and he comes to her, jeans growing heavy as they get wet, and his feet are cold –_

"Dean! Dean! It's okay! Dean, _listen_ to me, it's _okay!_"

He shakes his head sleepily, eyes barely blinking open, just enough to see a familiar ginormous face five inches from his.

Dean groans irritably, and allows his eyelids float shut again. His throat hurts, his heart is thudding like he just ran a marathon, and he's so tired it's like he hasn't slept at all. Sam has fucking great timing, the fucking _asshole_.

"Lemme alone," he croaks, unsuccessfully tries to bat Sam's head away with his hand. "Beauty sleep. Need…" a yawn threatens to cracks his head open, "need it. You too."

Sam shakes him again, grip tight on his shoulders.

"_Dean._"

He actually sounds frightened, so Dean heaves a sigh and blinks open his eyes.

"What," he asks throatily, meaning to be caustic but then Sam's _face, _God, the guy looks like he's an inch away from losing it.

He resigns himself to waking up _(damn it)_ and props himself on his elbows, Sam pulling back so now Dean can see the glory of their motel room in full detail.

Are his hands shaking? He blindly gropes under the pillow for a knife that isn't there while saying gently, "Sam. _Sam_. Breathe. What's wrong?"

Sam just stares at him, eyes at first like clear pools of... uh... hazel-colored water, which then slowly grow more and more opaque, and Dean wishes he knew Sam better, because maybe then he'd know what to say to stop it.

He wishes before-Dean was here. Before-Dean would know what to do.

"You…" his brother looks frazzled, spooked. Sam sits back on his haunches, wearing just shorts and hair flying every which way, and Dean gets this sense of déjà vu, like he's had this conversation before. "Why are you - what's going on?"

He wipes his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand and scowls. Gross. "Um, dude, that's what I'm asking you," he says pointedly. "Seeing as how I only woke up five seconds ago."

Forehead wrinkle. "But don't you… don't you remember?"

"Remember…?" he repeats in confusion, and then notices that his cheeks are wet. He wipes at his face with the back of his arms, leaving odd sticky streaks of cold across his skin, and great, he's been tearing up in his sleep again.

"Awesome," he mutters, then looks up at Sam the way he's been practicing ever since they met, the one where he's looking at Sam but not actually meeting his eyes. Nope, fuck that. "Sorry, did I wake you up?"

Sam ignores the question – honestly Dean can't blame him, it was a pretty stupid one – and blurts, "What the crap just happened?"

"Nothing," he replies grumpily, throwing the covers off. He stomps his way to the bathroom and turns on the faucet, splashes his face while muttering under his breath, "Thought I was done with this…"

"With what?" Sam asks from behind him.

He jumps. "Jesus," he curses, glares at the Sam in the mirror. "Don't _do _that."

"Done with what, Dean?"

"Nothing, okay? God. I had a dream, that's it. Now back off, give me some goddamn space here."

But Sam doesn't move, just quirks his nose the way he does when something puzzles him. His eyes look haunted the way Bobby's did, those times he had to shake Dean awake. Damn it. "Has this – has this happened before?"

"It… well… maybe um, once or twice?"

"What was -"

"We don't exactly live an apple-pie life, you know," he evades, but judging from the way Sam's looking at him, the guy's not convinced. "Come on man, I go out and get beat up by a horror movie every day. Any normal person would get traumatized at least a little."

Sam's face immediately softens as he goes into apologetic mode. "You're right, you're right." He distractedly runs his hand through his hair. "Then – ah – what was it about? We should – we should deal with it. Before it gets, in case it gets worse."

Fucking fuck. Dean sighs and turns around, stares Sam in the eye, trying to look as sincere as possible. "Sam. Look at me, yeah? I'm fine."

His brother stares back searchingly for a moment, then crinkles his forehead. "But you can't be - no, Dean, this isn't healthy. You can't be fine, not after – the way you _screamed_, Dean, God_ –_"

Decidedly uncomfortable now, he walks past Sam back to his bed. "Nothing to talk about, Sam." _Red_. _So much red. _"I had a dream. Good dream, even – there was a beach and this really hot chick – "

Frown. "You don't have to lie to me."

"I'm not! Honest."

"Dean."

"Damn it," he mutters, and relents. "Look, Sam, it's not - it's just this thing, okay, I get these perfectly normal dreams but I – you know, that happens. I don't know why, none of it really makes… " he waves his hand about, "well, any sense. But it does. I can't control it – heck, I don't even know when it goes on, I wouldn't have even found out if it hadn't been for Bobby. I never remember any of it, as far as I know I'm always sleeping fine. It's nothing, okay? Sucks for whoever's trying to get shut-eye around me, I guess, but that's it. Really."

Sam's eyes narrow. "And how long has this been going on?"

Dean screws up his face as he ponders. "Well… uh, I'd say since the – yeah, since the beginning, pretty much."

It obviously rankles Sam to hear this, but the guy swallows it down, sits on the bed and just considers Dean for a bit. And then, and then this… this _change_ comes over his face – his eyes actually brighten, cheeks flush, and the guy practically leaps over to his own bed, dragging his duffel bag from underneath it and then pulling things out of his duffel bag like he's lost a winning lottery ticket.

"What – what are you doing?" Dean says exasperatedly. "Dude." Sam ignores him, so he tries again. "Dude, it's like," he tosses a glance at the wall, "it's four freaking o'clock in the morning, Sam, Jesus."

After flinging to the ground what seems to be nearly everything he owns, Sam finally triumphantly pulls out his laptop and begins typing furiously. "I didn't think – I didn't even think about it. Why this is happening, instead of just – this is, I really think – "

Dean sits next to Sam warily, and after a moment, curiously peers over his shoulder at the Wiki page his brother's turned to.

"Psychogenic amnesia," he reads aloud. "A disorder characterized by abnormal memory functioning in the absence of structural damage or known biological cause… In most cases, patients lose their autobiographical memory and personal identity…" he blinks. "Hey, this kinda sounds like – wait, is this what I have?"

Sam's mouth purses. "It's possible," he says finally. "It certainly _looks_ feasible, but…"

"Patients exposed to physically or emotionally traumatic events are at a higher risk," Dean reads on. "Examples of individuals at higher risk include soldiers who have experienced combat, individuals sexually and physically abused… essentially any sufficiently severe… psychological stress, internal conflict, or… or intolerable… intolerable life situation…" he drifts off. "You think… you think hell gave me PTSD?"

"Not PTSD, amnesia. And yes, it's possible," Sam repeats, though the enthusiasm has faded, leaving him looking troubled. "If anything could be called traumatic… I mean, it's hell."

"Yeah, but…" he bites his lip, letting his eyes dance down the page.

'_Psychogenic amnesia is far from being completely understood. Freudian psychology states that psychogenic amnesia is an act of self-preservation… an alternative to suicide_.'

He clears his throat and looks away from the page. _Suicide. _"…Uh, so, so what you're saying is… is that hell messed me up so much I couldn't handle it. And that's why, that's why I'm here, and not…"

"You _are_ him," Sam says instantly. "And that's not what I'm saying."

"Well, what are you saying, Sam?" he shoots back, frustrated. He breaks away and stands, scratches at his scar. "Please, by all means, share with the class."

His brother looks back at the screen. "I… I need to do more research."

"What research? This is what I _have_, Sam, I'm freaking Jason Bourne. Or Goldie Hawn in that movie with Kurt Russel." He leans over Sam and reaches his hand to the keypad, scrolls down. "Hey, they – they have treatments listed here. Let's see… okay, bull, bull, bull… ahh, medication… um, what? No way. No way. Dude, I'm not doing this benzodiazepine crap, you can forget about it."

Scroll.

"What the hell's abreaction?" he mutters, clicks. "…Form of psychotherapy… used to assist a patient suffering from post-traumatic blah blah blah by re-living the… fuck. Sam, this is some really fucked up shit here. I'm not getting my memory back like this, I refuse."

Sam jostles his arm away, takes back control of the computer. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves here, all right? We don't –"

"Yeah we do!" he protests, sitting down heavily on his bed, bouncing a little. "It says so right there, this is exactly what I have!"

"Just because it looks like it doesn't mean…" Sam begins.

"Then what else can it be, Sam? Huh?"

Sam measures him with a look, then sighs. "Let's just… let's just leave it for now. We've got a case in the morning, anyway."

He stares for a second, then decides that he's more than willing to let the matter drop. Dean swivels his hips and lies down, hands laced under his head. "Oh yeah? What's this one about?"

Sam kills the light and responds with disturbing aplomb, "Someone swallowing razorblades with their candy."

Dean waits for it, but when Sam doesn't continue, he asks cautiously,

"…Uh, demonic razorblades?"

He can practically feel Sam giving him a _look_. "No, regular razorblades."

...Goddamn it, Dean isn't ever going to get the hang of this, is he?

* * *

_A/N: What do you think? Please review!_

_PS that last episode with Jo and Ellen? Rocked my world. I may or may not have shed a few tears. What a way to go. And for a second I was afraid killing Lucifer would be a seal, but of course that doesn't make sense, since the apocalypse without the devil is not really any kind of apocalypse.. Anyway, this is why I love Show. Yay Show!  
_


	14. to see you smile

**_the obeisance of memory_**

* * *

_A/N: Sorry guys, I'm afraid real life butts in from time to time. :(  
_

* * *

When Dean wakes up, it's to Sam hissing loudly at his phone.

He groans, throws a pillow over his head. "Be nice if I could get some sleep," he mutters pointedly under his breath, trying to remember what it was he dreamed about this time but getting nothing but a big black hole.

Not that it means anything. No one dreams all the time, after all.

Sam's voice rises, and Dean grabs the spare pillow and tosses it to the side without looking. After a moment he flops his head around, and opens his eyes.

No wonder he missed. Sam isn't even here.

His brother's voice comes from beyond the door. "-Couldn't tell me? You've known about it practically since he came back, and you couldn't even – no, don't try to act like it's not important, you _know _what it has to mean -" Pause, intake of air. "Yeah. I know I left. I had to. And it's not like – yeah all right, I get that it's not an excuse, but for crying out loud, Bobby, he's my brother, and this is proof – fine, not much. But it's… yeah. Yeah, I think so too, they're somewhere in there and we just… somehow. Yeah. Sounds good. No, still sleeping. All right, keep me updated."

Silence. The door squeals slowly as it opens.

"Nice chat?" Dean asks, head resting on a bent elbow.

Sam starts, relaxes. "Yeah," he replies upfront. "Was talking to Bobby about last night."

Dean stares, a little surprised by the honesty. But not complaining, God no. "And? You guys get anywhere?"

"You might say that," Sam says, and, rather unsurprisingly Dean thinks, changes the subject. "Get ready, we're burning daylight," he orders absently, starting to gather his laptop to take to the Impala.

Dean flops over on his stomach, air whooshing out of his chest.

"Sir yes sir," he mutters under his breath.

"I heard that."

Oops.

0000

"They found how many razorblades?" Dean asks in disbelief. He catches himself before Sam can even glare at him and adds a solemn, "Ma'am."

The pretty widow muffles a sob with her hand. "Two on the floor, one in his… in his stomach, and one was… stuck. In his throat." Dean's wince is unseen as her eyes squeeze shut. "He swallowed four of them – _four _of them, how is that even possible?"

The somewhat irreverent thought _maybe he just really liked candy? _comes to Dean's mind. He quickly shuts it away. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Wallace," he says, hesitantly putting a hand on her arm. "I don't know either, that's what we're here to find out."

She opens glistening red eyes – normal red, not _like that_ red – and they crinkle a little as she sniffs and tries to smile at him. "I-I know. I… I can't tell you how I appreciate you looking into…" she swallows, shaking her head and scrubbing at her face furiously. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to – I just – it's so soon –"

He awkwardly pats her arm a little. "You're okay, it's totally understandable, after all he did just – " he catches himself barely in time, "um I mean, it was only a couple of days ago. No one would blame you for being a little weepy, you know? Give yourself a break, these things take time." He fumbles at his pockets before his gaze alights on a box sitting on the counter. "Here, have a tissue."

"Thanks, you-you're right, you're right," Mrs. Wallace laughs a little brokenly, sniffing into the Kleenex. She wraps her arms around herself, as if cold, but her attempt at a smile is just a little more successful now, he thinks.

He decides to call it a victory, and searches his mind for any useful questions Sam might want him to ask. "Did you find any other razorblades lying around?"

She shakes her head. "No, I – I don't think so. The – the cops said the rest of the candy didn't have any."

The door squeaks a little when Sam opens it, and Mrs. Wallace finally turns around.

"…The candy was never in the spice cabinet," she tells Sam with a frown.

Sam doesn't even look at her as he sweeps his hand through to the back of the spices, along the wall and behind the door. "Don't mind him, Mrs. Wallace. We just have to be thorough," Dean says hastily.

"I – I suppose," she replies slowly, looking back at him.

He goes back to the questioning, trying again to be professional. Which without Sam taking the lead basically means resorting to his growing repertoire of Law and Order episodes.

Daytime TV, gotta love it.

"So, uh… Luke have any enemies?"

0000

When they leave the house, Sam pauses. "Hey, Dean?"

He glances at Sam as he unlocks the doors to the Impala. "Dude, I remember the way back this time, I swear. And anyways you're still not driving with that shoulder."

"No, it's not that." Sam shakes his head, the longass brown hair bouncing from side to side. Dean thinks to himself (again) that the guy really should invest in a haircut sometime soon. "I uh.. I just wanted to say that uh, that you…"

Dean replays the visit in his head as he turns on the ignition, but no matter how hard he tries he can't remember blowing their cover even once. Although maybe his… professionalism left something to be desired – if he really wants to be honest he'd kinda felt more like an elephant at a disco than James Bond on a mission.

…Shit, that couldn't be it, could it? He'd been that bad?

His heart sinks. Or maybe that's his stomach. Whatever – something is sinking, anyway.

"That I what?" he asks dully.

"That you, uh… did pretty well."

"Oh." He blinks, then shrugs as he puts the Impala in reverse and gets them on the road. After all the ridiculously long hours Dean's put in behind the wheel, the car feels warm and familiar under his hands, kind of a safe haven from all the strange backwater places Sam keeps dragging his ass to. "Thanks."

There's quiet for a little while, and he focuses on the road and getting back to motel sweet motel so they can google demonic razors and hex bags.

…God, their lives are messed up.

"I mean, you really… empathized with her," Sam blurts suddenly.

Dude's taking it a little far, Dean thinks dryly. "Her husband just died, Sam. You thought I'd tell her to suck it up?"

His brother looks startled. "Uh, no, it's just – "

"I get that I'm not what you'd call socially graceful, okay? I know I forgot how to be all tactful and shit – amnesia, remember – but I'm trying to figure it out and I'm trying to do this job, so cut me some slack, Sam, all right? Can I ask you to do that?"

He gets nothing but silence.

Which is fine with Dean. He's figured out a while ago that Sam can't let things go for the life of him – like a dog with a bone, it's always more more more, questions and complaints and compliments with qualifiers. Yeah, leave it to Sam to say good job and at the same time make it clear how utterly surprising it is that Dean hadn't botched things up by being a sociopathic bastard. Thank you Sam, thanks a fucking lot.

He bites down on a growl.

After a while he sneaks a look at the guy from the corner of his eye, just because Sam and prolonged silence never bode well. Really, never.

Sam's facing the window, turned away from Dean with one hand over his eyes. The other one is in his lap, clenched around a fold in his dusty blue jeans so tightly the knuckles are a bright white.

_Fuck you,_ he swears at himself, wishing he could throw himself a good uppercut to the face because he's pretty sure he just blew it. Sam's upset.

Why does Dean have to be so defensive all the fucking time? Why can't he just let it go when the guy's trying to be nice, even if he sucks at it, why can't Dean just relax and take it easy, why can't he – hold up a fucking moment, that can't be right.

Dean narrows his eyes, and chances another glance at his brother. And yeah. Sam's shoulders are shaking.

Dean's pretty sure the guy isn't sobbing out his woes. Like pretty fucking sure.

"Okay, what the hell's so funny?"

No response.

He looks over again. Sam's _quivering_.

He wonders when he's supposed to start worrying. "Sam?"

His brother finally manages to get a breath in. "You think – tact – like you ever –" Sam heaves a shuddering breath, hand clamped to his mouth as if laughing is against all that's true and good in the world. "You – _you_ _gave her a tissue –_" and in the middle of the last word Sam stops fighting it, throws his head back and just cracks up.

The guy's clearly insane. "You are insane," Dean tells him.

Sam just laughs harder. "Y-you need to take a left here," he gasps, pointing.

Dean looks over. Sam's right. "Shut up," he mutters.

After Sam calms down – which isn't until they're back at the hotel, by the way, and Dean still has no idea what that was all about – he fills Dean in about hexes and witches, and also shows disturbing aplomb as he holds up what he says is the metacarpal of a newborn and an extinct herb but actually just looks like a tiny chicken bone and a dried up piece of grass. Dean doesn't know what's more wrong – that Sam can identify extinct plants or that Sam can identify baby bones.

Okay, actually he does. But he's not going to think about that.

0000

They don't find anything on Luke Wallace, who seems to be a pretty okay, straight-laced guy. They don't find anything on Jenny Nguyen either, who apparently was a pretty normal, straight C student. They find plenty on Tracy Davis though.

Like, that she's apparently a witch, for example.

"What, Tracy? That blonde girl?"

_"She said she didn't know Luke Wallace, but here she is, babysitting the Wallace kid. Think we can safely assume she was lying. And if she was lying, it means she was trying to hide something, probably being a witch."_

"Or maybe she panicked," Dean reasons. "People forget stuff when they panic."

Dean can't see Sam rolling his eyes over the phone, but he thinks he can safely assume Sam's not exactly nodding his head in agreement. _"Yeah. Right. Listen, we'll check on her, ask around, okay? Make sure she's our target before we stab her."_

"Har har har, you're fucking hilarious," he replies dryly. He clears his throat, because sometimes Sam's bloodthirst makes him bloody uncomfortable. "So, uh, talk to Bobby again?"

_"Yeah."_

He's not sure he wants to know. "Find anything?"

_"Not yet, but don't worry, Bobby and I got this. All right? Trust me."_

"Okay."

_"Gotta go, but I'll be back in a few. You want coffee?"_

It's weird, but Dean suddenly realizes he's never actually had coffee before. "Um yeah, sure." He takes a breath to ask Sam what kind of coffee he should get, but by then Sam's already hung up.

Typical.

0000

The coffee isn't tasty, but it does have a kind of interesting kick, Dean thinks on the drive. It's got this, uh… vanilla sort of aftertaste he's not all that sure he likes, but he sips at it anyway. He needs the energy, and he's not that picky. He doesn't complain about it to Sam, either, because when he looks over Sam's shoulders are shaking again, and Dean has a feeling he doesn't really want to know. Though he thinks he can guess.

He's definitely not going to let Sam get coffee next time, tell you that much.

They check out stuff at the school, the houses, the library, before they finally get back to the motel. When a kid in an astronaut costume comes up to Dean asking for candy, it's like a lightbulb goes off in Sam's brain, because the guy says something about Halloween and bolts back to the Impala (probably realizing he left the laptop), leaving Dean by himself to deal with the testy trick-or-treater.

Unfair? Totally.

Dean stares down. The kid glares up, raises his hand insistently.

He sighs, giving in. "Wait here, I'll go find a vending machine."

0000

They go out for lunch, because with all the driving around they'd forgotten to get food and Dean's starving. Sam's apparently not, though, because all he orders is this large bowl of leafy greens that could maybe feed a couple of rabbits but not someone who can loom over Dean's 6'1. It's always amusing watching Sam eating a salad, because with all the muscles he's got you'd think he was ingesting nothing but protein shakes and meat, but the guy at most delicately dribbles some Caesar dressing on there, which makes Dean feel kinda bad for eating a double chicken biscuit (it's a diner special).

Maybe he'll have some salad for dinner.

There's supposed to be really good pie there too, but Sam's antsy about Samhain and solving the case – _there's just one more sacrifice, Dean, are you getting this? –_ so they go back the motel before Dean even gets the chance to order it. Which is a shame, but stopping the breaking of the veil between life and death or earth and hell (or whatever)is sorta more important than taking the diner up on the _Our Pie Is The Best, Just Try And Test! _tagline.

Delicious as that sounds.

He only has a foot in the room before everything suddenly goes fast motion, Sam hurtling himself onto a dark figure in the corner of the room, fists raised, a throaty shout ripping out of his mouth.

"Whoa whoa whoa," Dean yells, grabbing Sam, glad that the guy didn't pull out his gun – even though that might have freaked him out a little less. "Sam, _Sam,_" he gasps as he tries to hold on and avoid flying elbows, "Stop – come on, stop it! That's Cas you're trying to beat up!" Sam minutely slows his struggling, and Dean urgently adds in his ear, "Castiel, you know, the _angel_. From the porch?"

Sam completely stills. "The… the angel?"

Dean meets Castiel's eyes, tears them away and looks back at Sam. "Yeah, Castiel the angel." He hears a rustle, and turns to look at the black guy standing next to the window by the TV. "Okay, no idea who that is, though."

Sam stills, eyes the size of dinner plates as Castiel walks slowly towards him.

"Hello, Sam," the angel says.

"Hi-hello," Sam blurts, and stands upright. He wipes his hands on his pants, then holds one of them out. "Hello," he repeats. "I… it's – it's an honor."

Castiel looks down at Sam's hand for a moment, then back up at Sam.

"You're supposed to shake it," Dean says helpfully.

Castiel glances at him dubiously for a second, before doing as he says. Awkward as it is, it's kind of worth it to see the awestruck look on Sam's face.

"So why the visit?" Dean interjects, before Sam does something like bow and offer to shine Castiel's shoes. "Won the lottery? It's my birthday? ...Is it my birthday?" he asks with a frown, only half-jokingly.

But Sam shoots him an incredulous stare, which makes him think it isn't. Dean makes a mental note to ask him about it later. They need to do something really cool for his first one back.

Castiel is definitely not amused. "Have you stopped Samhain from rising?"

"Well, not yet –"

"Have you located the witch?"

"Not –" Dean glances at Sam uneasily. "Not exactly? We know who it is though," he adds hurriedly. "That's something, right?"

"Apparently the witch knows you as well," Castiel replies grimly. He picks up a little bag which looks all too familiar. "If we hadn't found this hex bag, one or both of you would be dead."

Dean winces. "Shit, thanks."

The angel looks a little startled, but nods. "You're welcome."

"Enough of this, Castiel," the other guy in the room says coldly. "You are wasting your time on these humans."

"Uriel," Castiel says only, and the guy – Uriel? – promptly shuts up. He turns back to Dean and Sam. "The raising of Samhain. It's one of the sixty-six seals."

For some reason Dean doesn't feel any surprise. The whole deal with Samhain had sounded freaking apocalyptic from the start. "So, what, you're gonna help us stop it? Sam and I could probably use some divine – "

"No," Castiel cuts him off. "We are not here for that."

Sam finally speaks up, "Then what are you here for?"

Castiel stares at them both. "To tell you to leave this town. Immediately."

Dean frowns. "What? Why?"

"Because we're about to destroy it."

* * *

_A/N: So no worries, I don't really want to rewrite the entire episode - you guys saw it, and I'm thinking that's enough. Still, I thought it was important to depict at least some of the changes in the dynamic of Dean and Sam, as well as Dean and anyone else, really. Things should be a mite more interesting next chapter... as soon as I get around to writing it, haha. I hope you guys enjoyed this one though. Please tell me what you thought.  
_


	15. all powers can't be seen

**_the obeisance of memory_**

* * *

_A/N: There is so much crap I have to do, but I couldn't get this chapter out of my mind. So really I'm writing this to be done with it and get on with my life. Not as a procrastination method... nooo..._

_Anyway, it's nice and long, so please do enjoy it until the next update (whenever that one starts to bug me...).  
_

* * *

Something doesn't feel right about this.

It could have something to do with the sandwich Dean had at lunch. Or Sam's ever-lengthening and perpetually bitchy hair.

…Or it might have something to do with the two angels talking casually about exterminating a town with thousands of people.

You know. Maybe.

"Destroy it?" he says incredulously. "But what about everyone living here?"

Castiel's features are drawn tight, like a too-small bedsheet. "Do you understand what would happen if Lucifer was released, Dean?" he asks grimly, heavily implying that no, Dean doesn't understand. "There are more than six billion people on Earth. Do you think they would be spared? Do you think he'd let them live?"

Dean flinches. "I… no, I – I guess not," he mumbles. "Being Satan."

"There are at least a thousand people here," argues Sam. "You can't kill them all!"

"One thousand two hundred and fourteen," the other angel – Uriel – says. "And just watch me."

Castiel shoots Uriel a warning look before turning back to them. "This is regrettable," he says, sounding as sincere as someone else might be about missing a movie. Which, to be fair, is actually pretty sincere when it's coming from monotone-I-_own_-monotone Castiel. "But we've been backed into a corner. Too many seals are broken. There is no time."

"You're really willing to destroy an entire town?" Sam says. He looks completely scandalized. "You won't even try to find another solution?"

"We have our orders."

"But you're angels, you're – you're supposed to show mercy! Not - come on Dean, help me out here!"

Dean doesn't really see the point of arguing with angels, because, come on, they're _angels. _But Sam asked, so for him, Dean supposes he can try.

He clears his throat. "Can't you just let this one go, guys? I mean, I'm sure God wouldn't – "

"Like something like you would know what God wants," Uriel spits.

And okay, divine messenger or not, this guy is really good at pissing him off. "Hey angelcakes, let's get something straight here," he says. "You guys need me? Godneeds me? Right? Well, no one is fucking getting me if this town is fucking smited, I can fucking promise you that!"

Sam looks over at him, and for once Dean can see the pride in his eyes. He stands closer to Dean and nods at Castiel. "We're not leaving," he says.

Uriel _growls_. Like a fucking Siamese. "You think you can stop us -"

"Uriel," Castiel says sternly, then says to Dean and Sam, "You mean to stop the witch?"

"Yes," Sam says, determinedly. "And we will."

Dean nods.

Castiel meets their gazes for a moment, first Sam, then Dean. He seems to weigh his choices.

At last he says, "Then I suggest you hurry."

0000

"Uh... everything okay there?"

"Dean," Sam breathes. "That was – that was an angel. A real angel."

Dean frowns. Of all things he'd expected to happen when they finally hauled ass to the Impala, it wasn't Sam having a panic attack.

Didn't they already go through this? he wonders. "Uh, yeah, Sam. That was Castiel."

Sam's eyes are a little too wide. It's a bit of a tossup as to whether Dean's words are sinking in. "They really – they really were _angels_."

"Yeah, Sam," Dean says slowly. "Kinda like I've been telling you for the past two months, you know."

"Well yeah, but – I didn't really – " Sam stammers awkwardly and falters to a completely uncomfortable silence.

Funny, how that pretty much tells Dean everything he needs to know.

"You didn't believe me."

"No!" Sam quickly denies. So convincingly, too. "I mean, I knew that _you_ believed it's true, and everything about the seals seemed to be dead on, but…"

Dean folds his arms. "But what? You thought I was suddenly all-knowing?"

"No, it's just… I didn't believe Castiel was an angel."

"Then what the hell did you think he was, a fabric-softener teddy bear?"

Sam blinks, before shaking his head. "I thought he was someone giving you orders," he says, sounding careful. "I just wasn't sure the orders came from God."

"Why not?" he asks, narrowing his eyes. "Didn't Bobby say that only angels could get someone out of hell?"

Sam sighs. "Yeah, but Bobby and I – well, we thought that whoever got you out was probably the same person who took your memories. And angels are… well, they're a force of good. Or they're supposed to be, anyway," he says bitterly. "They're not what I thought. I didn't think -" he stops himself and smiles blankly. "Well. Doesn't matter now."

Dean shrugs. "Yeah, well. Aside from being dicks, this isn't really their fault, is it? They said they were just following orders."

Sam stares at him incredulously. "These weren't orders to clean their room, Dean! They were gonna destroy the entire town!"

"So? I thought the whole deal about angels was that they didn't have free will."

A hollow laugh. "So I should blame God? Is that what you're saying?"

He rubs the handprint through his shirt. How does he get himself into these conversations? "Blame who you want, Sam, I'm not gonna stop you. But I mean, if God's really so all powerful and all, then he probably already knew we were going to try to stop them, don't you think?"

Sam stares at him for a while, then smiles for real. "You know, I never thought I'd hear something like that from you. It's kinda surreal."

Bah. He makes a face. "Shut up."

"No, really, I'm interested. What are your views on gay marriage, Reverend?"

"Why, who's the lucky husband? Thought you said you weren't like that."

"Oh, fuck _off_," Sam says, and Dean laughs.

0000

It occurs to him later that he missed something. "Hey, what made you think that someone stole my memory? That wiki site was pretty specific, you know. It sure sounded like what I have."

"Except you don't show signs of trauma when you're awake," Sam replies readily. "And unless you're lying about remembering your dreams, it sounds like you're having two dreams at once, which, if you didn't know, is pretty impossible. So that leaves magical tampering. Or so Bobby and I guess, anyway."

Way to be a freak, he tells himself. "Witch, you think?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Do you listen to anything I say?"

"What am I supposed to do, Sam, sometimes the TV's on."

0000

They call Bobby to look up a demon binding ritual – just in case Samhain does get out – but everything's goes sideways far too fast and by the time Bobby calls with a ready spell they're a little too busy to pick up the phone. To be honest though, when Samhain kills the witch Dean's kind of relieved. Incest (she'd called Don her _brother_) is not really on his must-watch list. Erk.

…And this was definitely not on his shit-I-thought-I'd-deal-with-today list.

"Hey Sam," he grits out as he wipes at his cheeks with a sleeve, "you want to explain why I got blood on my face?"

"Halloween lore says that Samhain can't see through masks. Thought I'd give it a shot."

He stops, looks over at Sam. "A- a _shot_? You weren't – you didn't know if it'd work?"

"Well, no. But it did, didn't it?"

There's nothing much to say to that, and Dean can't really tear Sam a new one since they are trying to stop evil dark demon lord of doomness together, so he settles for glaring. Glaring really hard.

Naturally, Sam's completely unmoved.

Asshole.

0000

"We gotta go."

The teens behind him start to protest. "You can't just leave us here!" one guy says, eyes practically popping out of their sockets with the idea. "They already got Justin, they'll get us too!"

Sam glances ahead, then at the kids, then levels his gaze back at Dean. "We have to stop Samhain, Dean."

He stares in disbelief. "So, what, razing a town is bad but letting these kids get killed is A-okay?"

Sam runs a hand through his hair. "No - of course not, but - Dean, we don't have time!"

Which is true - they had to run all the way here, didn't even take Bobby up on the spell. Dean bites his lip, trying to think past the increasingly loud objections of the kids. "All right, go. I'll take over here."

Sam frowns at him. "Are you –"

"This isn't the time to make me doubt myself, in case you were wondering," Dean says. "What, you think I can't handle a couple –" _million _"zombies?"

"I –" Sam stops. "Yeah, okay," he says. "Just – be careful."

"You too," he replies, and shoves Sam onward so the giant can go rid the world of evil.

Some evil. A small percentage of evil, at the very least.

If he wants to be honest with himself, though, Sam'll have a better chance taking care of Samhain without Dean tagging along. Much as Dean's improved, there are still times when his brain runs ahead of his body and says _whoa, wait, why am I fighting a wood nymph?_ and for a stupid second he has to stop and reconsider his chosen (more like thrust-upon) profession, which is usually not at a very convenient time. Luckily, Sam's usually there to make sure he isn't beheaded by a tree branch, but Sam can't always pick up his slack.

And besides. Sam's really strong and really big and really quick with that demon knife, so he'll probably be fine against the worst demon this side of Halloween. Completely fine.

Yeah. Dean should really just worry about himself now.

"AHHHHH!"

...And the kids. Right, them.

0000

The teenagers do a good job of following orders and bolting like bats out of hell. Only one of them stops, hesitantly touches his arm and asks if he won't come along.

He smiles at her absently, eyes focused on the zombies – huh, so that's what they actually look like – and shrugs one shoulder. "Nah, I gotta take care of this," he says, patting her on the head. Short. How old is she, seventeen? Whatever her age, the scared shitless look makes her seem that much younger. Which says something about how brave she must be, Dean supposes. "Don't worry about me, this is kinda – " he dodges a flying radius (or ulna?) "– kinda what I do."

She looks up at him, big brown eyes edged with freckles. "But aren't you –"

He grunts as he fires at the one hanging from the ceiling. Woot, head shot. "Seriously, get out of here." He tosses her a grin. A ghost appears in front of them, and he gets rid of it easily enough. "I'll be fine."

It almost looks like she's about to protest anyway, but right then a bony hand (like, literally, made of bone hand) gets too close and makes a pass at her neck.

He pushes her out of the way as she screams shrilly, turns on his heel and pulls off a quick shot. "Go go go!" he yells, backing up, and she vamooses faster than Sam at a truck rally in Texas (which is pretty fast). He spares a second to hope she'll be okay - as far as he knows there aren't any zombies out there, but he can't be sure - then aims, shoots, aims, shoots, but they keep coming and he's not sure what else to do. He remembers Samhain (and why isn't Sam done with that already?) and wonders whether the zombies will drop dead when Sam kills him, because that would be utterly fantastic and very handy right about now.

…Maybe too much to hope for, though.

As he reloads he hears a yell from far off. He can only hope it isn't Sam, because he's a little too busy to play backup. Stupid kids all concerned about other people's safety. That girl really crimped his style.

Another yell, this time sharper, and Dean's had it. "Die already!" he bellows, and shoots shoots shoots.

Bang bang bang. The last zombie drops to the ground with a satisfying _thud_.

Dean surveys the scene for a moment. None of them get back up.

"Well, again," he adds, and then runs to Sam.

0000

When he reaches the dank mausoleum place he stammers to a stop. Don – Samhain – _whoever_, is lying on the floor, a little bloody and very much dead. Following the trail of red from the corpse with his eyes leads him to Sam, who's sitting against the wall, eyes screwed shut.

Dean drops his gun and hurries to Sam's side. There's blood on his shoulder – stitches probably reopened, damn it, after they'd just started healing too – and there's more blood on his sleeve but not a rip, as if he'd wiped something on it thoughtlessly. "Fuck, you okay?"

Sam smiles a little, a weirdly exalted expression on his face. Which, considering he killed a scary powerful demon, maybe isn't all that weird when you think about it.

"Yeah… yeah. I'm okay." He coughs blood into his hand.

"You're coughing blood into your hand," Dean says.

"Could maybe use some help," the nitwit admits.

He rolls his eyes. "No, really?" Dean offers his hand and Sam takes it (with the non-bloody one, for which Dean's somewhat thankful). The guy sways unsteadily on his feet, and before he has a chance to protest Dean puts Sam's arm over his shoulder, supporting what must be most of Sam's not-inconsiderable weight.

Reason why it sucks having a jacked brother, number 48.

They start walking – well really Dean's walking, Sam's more being awkwardly dragged along – and pass by the… evil dude corpse. Dean pauses to pick up his gun and kick corpsey-face in the arm. Just because he can.

He waits. Nothing happens.

"Well he's dead," he says. "Good freaking riddance."

"Put up a good fight, though," Sam says breathlessly.

"Yeah? Couldn't have guessed." He pauses, gathers himself before taking the stairs. Sam's freakishly heavy. "So how'd you kill him? That special demon knife do the trick?"

"I -" Sam gasps, before he pukes all over Dean's shoes.

Dean wrinkles his nose.

"Yeah," he tells Sam, "you know, not your best strategy there."

0000

"You shouldn't blame yourself."

Dean starts, then looks over at Castiel, who's sitting on the other side of the bench. "And you should really start warning people before you do that."

"Dean."

He sighs. "I'm not. Really." He tries on a smile, and gestures at the kids playing on the swings. "I mean, yeah, the seal's down, but these kids are still alive. The ones back at the crypt? They're alive too. This playground, these trees... this is all here because of me and Sam. That's – I mean, if nothing else. That means something."

"It does," the angel agrees.

"I'm… I'm not sorry," he says, looking down at his lap. "We did the right thing, I believe that. Even if you or your boss don't think so."

"You misunderstand me, Dean. I was praying for you to save the town."

He glances at him, forehead wrinkling. "Really? You can pray?"

Castiel almost smiles. "Yes." His expression darkens a little. "And doubt."

He cocks his head, digesting the info. "So much for no free will, huh?"

The angel says nothing for a moment. "Our orders were not to destroy the town," he says. "They were to follow whatever you told us to do."

Dean faces Castiel in surprise. "What?" An image of Uriel wearing a tutu crosses his thoughts, and he almost smirks.

"Not like that," this time Castiel actually smiles a little, as if reading Dean's mind. He elaborates, "It was a test. To see how you would perform. What you would choose."

"A test?" He pauses, squirms a little in his seat. "Did I - did I pass?"

"What do you think?"

He stares into nothing, considering. "I… I'd like to think so," he says finally. "Yeah, I - I think I did. And you know what, if I didn't, then - then fuck it, failing's just fine by me."

Yeah, he thinks. He could live with failing that kind of test.

Dean reflects awhile, then looks over. "You know what, Cas, you aren't such a -" he says, before realizing that, of course, Castiel's already gone.

"Fucker," he says aloud, and grins.

0000

He stays there for a while - Sam's asleep, so he can allow himself a little break. Dean watches the kids swing, slide, play tag and jump off the monkey bars.

It makes him wonder if he and Sam ever played like that. Would John Winchester have allowed it? Sam and Bobby always talk about him being a strict motherfucker, but Dean can't really imagine anyone depriving kids of being, well, kids. The question is, though, if they even would have had where to go. Do motels usually have playgrounds?

Sam probably went all the time, Dean thinks to himself. At least in school. And before-Dean probably would have taken Sam himself every once in a while, maybe when John was away. He doesn't think he could have refused Sam anything at that age - puppy eyes from eight year old Sammy? Please, no way.

Sam probably loved it. Dean could see him as a swings kind of kid, always trying to get higher and higher as if with enough force he might fly off somewhere else. He wonders about himself, but can't really imagine what playing in a playground might feel like, let alone for a kid he can't remember being. Maybe he liked slides. Or monkey bars. Or maybe he didn't like that kind of thing at all. Who knows. He pictures little before-Dean as an odd and practical kind of boy, serious and defensive and constantly worried for Sam.

Maybe the only playing he did was pushing Sam on the swings.

What a sad little man, he thinks with pity, before it strikes him that he's thinking that about himself, which is kind of weird.

Suddenly there's a presence next to him again – he can feel the familiar crawl up his spine.

He chuckles. "Couldn't stay away?" he jokes, before snatching his eyes away from the kids and looking back at someone who's definitely not Castiel.

He flinches, draws back.

"Hey there," the guy says cheerfully. He looks to be in his fifties or sixties, big jolly face and a suspicious bit of white hair over his ears. "Nice day out, isn't it?"

Dean glances around, but no one seems to pay them any attention. As per the course for heavenly visitations, it seems. "You an angel?" he asks suspiciously.

"Got it in one," the angel grins. It's not exactly a nice kind of grin, which puts a new spin on why Castiel and Uriel don't smile much. Maybe angels just aren't good at smiling.

Or maybe it's only this one who's creepy.

He frowns. "I just talked to Castiel."

"I know, I'm the one who called him up." He holds out his hand. "Call me Zachariah. I'm Castiel's boss."

His frown deepens as he distractedly returns the cold grip. "I thought that was God."

Zachariah chuckles like Dean's said something hilarious. "No," he smiles. "God's a bit higher up on the food chain than dear ol' Castiel. Castiel's a foot soldier, maybe an officer if you want to get really technical."

A part of him's annoyed at the offhand dismissal of the only angel he knows and somewhat likes. "So what does that make you, a bureaucrat?"

The shark grin is unfazed. "Oh good, a sense of humor. That'll make things easier for both of us."

"What do you want?"

"Relax, relax, I'm just here for a chat," Zachariah says, and settles back. "How are things with Sam working out?"

Dean's eyes slide to the ground. Sam's recovering pretty quickly – sometimes it seems like all the freak ever needs is a bit of sleep and he's back on his feet – but, still. "Fine. Kinda crazy, though, what with trying to save seals that no one bothers to tell us about until they're breaking."

"Oh, don't worry about that," the angel waves off the unsubtle hint. "There are at least six hundred seals, Dean, the last thing you want to do is to hear about all of them. True, one or two are a doozy, but it's not worth the labor, trust me." He threads his fingers together and changes the subject before Dean can protest. "And how's Sam treating you? Not badly, I hope?"

"No way," he says. "Sam's a good guy."

"Yes, yes, of course." Zachariah nods. His eyes glimmer. "So you two are doing well? He keeps you in the know?"

Dean hesitates. "Well… well yeah," he mumbles. He pauses, biting his lips, wonders how honest he's supposed to be. But he is after all an angel, and the creepy grin's gone, so, maybe… "Well, mostly anyway."

"Mostly?"

He rubs his scar. "It's nothing, just... sometimes I get the feeling like… like he isn't saying everything. That he could. Be saying."

The angel's gaze sharpens. "What do you mean?"

"It's not his fault," he hurries to explain. "I mean, it makes sense. Sam would probably be telling me more if I… if I remembered. You know, if I knew what to ask. What to look for. What things used to be like."

"You think so?"

He leans back, smiles lopsidedly into the sun, shrugs. It's ironic since Dean's right there, but, then again, in a very real way he isn't. "Sam really misses his brother."

Dean can feel Zachariah's eyes on him. "They were very close, those two."

His smile tightens. Something in the angel's phrasing almost purposely reminds him of the fact that however hard he might try, he's not Sam's Dean. Sure, he knows Sam's glad to have him around – if nothing else, Dean knows that – but it's not the same. It can't be.

And he'd have to be blind to see that his memory glitch has been hard on Sam.

"Don't have to tell me that," he says, turning to look at the kids again.

_I never tucked you into bed, I never gave you your first beer, _he remembers saying, and he remembers how exasperated he'd been, how many times he'd wished Sam would just get with the program and cut him some slack, treat him like he was his own person and deal with their past on his own. Just leave Dean out of it. He remembers how back at Bobby's he'd kept wishing for the memories to be back just for his own sake, so he'd have some idea of where he'd been and where to go.

But now, for the first time really, he wants to remember for Sam. And for Before-Dean. The trust they must have had for each other...

The soft voice jolts him out of his thoughts. "Makes you wish you were him, doesn't it?"

A chill runs up Dean's spine. He ignores it. "Who?"

"Dean Winchester, of course."

When his eyes widen, Zachariah raises an eyebrow.

"What," he says, "you didn't _really _believe you were Sam's brother, did you?"

* * *

_A/N: Hehehehe. *Runs away*  
_


	16. if only for a while

_A/N: Guys, I don't even know. I've been so busy working/studying that I honestly didn't think I'd ever come back to this story... but then I got these two reviews recently and they made me go 'wait, why are they reviewing this again?' So I read everything from the beginning, and then I looked at what I had done already... and in less than a day, I had this done. Guess all I really needed was some time and motivation._

_So, sorry for taking so long (on such a cliffhanger, too!), and thank you everyone for all the kind, amazing reviews. They really did help.  
_

* * *

He needs to sit down.

…Wait, he is sitting down.

Fuck.

"You're surprised."

_No shit, asshole, _he wants to say, but what comes out is a choked, "Wha – _what?_"

"I guess I can't blame you," the angel says, pleasantly enough. "After all, not like you know how to be anyone else, eh?" and he says this with a smile, as if he's sharing a secret joke.

But this isn't funny. This is the farthest thing in the world from funny. "What the – how – what do you mean? I'm Dean. I'm – I'm _Dean_."

Zachariah pats his shoulder. Dean's too numb and out of it to move, just sits there feeling like – like he's – like he can't even –

"Hey, Dean, come on, don't be like that. For all intents and purposes, after all, you _are _Dean Winchester. In fact, one can even say you're more Dean than the genuine article." He leans in, punches Dean's arm playfully. "Brighten up, kid. You're as Dean Winchester as they get."

"But not Dean Winchester."

"Nope," the angel affirms.

He swallows. "But – " he says, grasping at straws. "Why do you call me Dean, then, if I'm not –"

"What do you want me to call you, Grunt Number Two?" Zachariah chuckles, but when Dean doesn't join in he assumes a properly sober expression. "Dean, Dean, Dean. It's honestly not that big a deal – really, no need for you to go through an identity crisis this late in the game."

Yeah, fat chance of that.

"But what – " questions whirl through his head, flashes of guns and Impalas and Bobby, and, and _Sam _– "but then who _am _I?"

Blue eyes watch him like a cat eyeing a ball of string, with the same disdainful mix of interest and apathy. And then suddenly Zachariah seems to relent, releasing a sigh that's almost sad. "You want the honest truth, kiddo?"

'"Um, _yeah."_

The angel shrugs as if to say, _you asked for this_. "No one."

He blinks. "What?"

"Exactly what I said."

"No one," Dean – Not-a-Zombie? – repeats. "I'm no one."

"No need to take it so hard," Zachariah says. "You might have been someone at some point. Maybe."

"Maybe," he echoes.

"Well, I'm assuming." Zachariah shrugs and smiles that smile of his, doesn't say anything else.

He feels sick. Hollow. "I don't… I don't understand. What - why would I be in someone else's body?"

"Because I put you there, of course." Zachariah crosses his legs lazily and pauses, tapping a finger against his mouth. "Let's see, how to put this so you can comprehend. You're like, hm… you're like a CD. And Dean's body? Just the CD drive."

"Then why am I…" God, he hates metaphors so. Freaking. Much. "…Why's my CD blank, exactly?"

The angel smiles coldly. "Because I'm the programmer, and what I say goes."

Dean hides a swallow, tries to discretely scoot away. For the first time he gets the distinct, unshakable vibe that this guy is big league - not a team player, not someone to mess with, and definitely not someone about to give one iota of a damn for a human like Dean Winchester.

…Or, for that matter, his substitute.

Zachariah blinks, as if realizing he's revealed maybe a wee bit more than he should have. "I wouldn't say it was blank," he says soothingly, and far, far too late for Dean's comfort. "The software's still there – you can thank me for that, by the way – you're just missing most of the documents. Or music, depending on the kind of CD we're talking about, in which case your meatsuit would be the stereo."

He stares blankly.

The angel clears his throat, gestures dismissively. "Ah well, I never was what you'd call down with technology," he says warmly, neatly closing the subject. "I've always been more of a do-it-yourself kind of guy. More satisfaction that way, don't you think?"

His throat works, something roiling in his belly. "Why did you do this?" he asks, and once the words come out he realizes that he's angry_. _Not just angry but actually furious. The entire world's taken on a red sheen - everything blurs except for the angel, whose smug smile is rendered in brilliant, overexposed detail.

It's the first time he's felt anything like this, so he's not all that sure what you're supposed to do- he has all this energy and rage bottled up and trying to escape him with nowhere to go.

Would help if he had something to punch, he imagines. His fingers ball up into a fist anyway, nails digging into his palms. The first target to present itself, he thinks, it's going _down._

The angel studies him. "Let's take a walk, shall we?" he says suddenly.

They walk. Dean follows the angel mechanically, glaring at him from a couple of steps behind._ Jackass,_ he thinks at the broad back, but it just figures that angels can't read minds. _Douchebag._ Nothing.

Which is probably a good thing. He supposes he wants to go to heaven someday, and his thoughts at the moment would not get him anywhere close.

…Maybe he's being ignored. Still, angel.

_You're lying_, he tries again, mentally pelting the words at Zachariah's head, but they only bounce off and disappear into the grass somewhere. He wants to say more, protest more, but nothing comes to mind and there's no proof, there's no proof and no way to guarantee that he is for a fact who Sam said he is, who Bobby and Sam helped him become.

He wants... he wants Cas, actually, which surprises him a little. But then again, Cas only knows him like he is now, without any knowledge of before-Dean getting in the way. Plus, Cas always seems like he knows exactly who Dean is, who he isn't.

…Except.

_You didn't really think you were Sam's brother, did you?_

Except, right, maybe not.

0000

He nudges opens the door. "Hope you're hungry," he says, "for I have brought enough food to feed -" his eyes adjust to the darkness of the room, and he sighs, deflating. "…A sleeping giant."

He puts down the groceries on the table – tomatoes, cucumbers and bread, plus salami from the supermarket deli – and sits on the chair next to Sam's bed.

This is better, he tells himself as he settles in. He needs time to think, anyway.

"_Stop it_, _Deeean_," Sam mumbles, sound asleep as he turns over, annoyed at Dean even in his dreams.

He blinks, startled, but Sam doesn't say anything else.

...Thinking's totally overrated. They couldn't have finished all the beers in the fridge, right?

0000

"Faith's a funny thing," Zachariah begins out of nowhere. "You know, Sam used to pray. Every day, actually."

He blinks. "Sam?" Can't be.

Zachariah smiles at him. "I know, right? You wouldn't think so to look at him now, but once upon a time Sam used to be the softie of the Winchester duo. Sure, maybe he had demon juice in him, but that moral compass was as straight as an arrow. Dean was the wildcard we actually used to worry about. Kind of a trigger-happy maniac." He grins. "No offense."

He shrugs. It sounds about accurate, from what he's heard. Not to mention that there's no point in being offended for someone he isn't. "None taken."

The angel wets his lips, gestures with his hands. "Obviously, this changed a bit, to say the least. See, once Dean sold his soul, things got a little, well, messed up. Suddenly Sam was the guy moments away from a psychotic rampage, and Dean - well, Dean became a little happy-go-lucky walking suicide case."

It sounds surreal but still, Dean can almost picture it, the transformation. How Sam became more and more desperate, more and more guilty, more and more alone…

_No one would deal_, he remembers Sam saying, and now he understands perfectly why even remembering the words makes him shiver.

"So as you might imagine, it pretty much just got worse once Dean died. Poor Sam tried everything to get him back… but he couldn't, of course. Not how those things work."

He finds his voice with difficulty. "So you're saying there was nothing, really," he says. "Nothing he could have done. It was a lost cause from the start."

"Well," the angel says, hesitates, stops walking for a moment, then goes on. "Well, maybe not." He shakes his head. "Anyway, never mind that now. Fact is he didn't. And that's when dear little Sammy went off the deep end, started, how shall we say, embracing his darker side. Allied himself with that demon, started learning how to use his demon blood, the whole evil shebang. You saw it at the diner, didn't you, what he was like? Just imagine how it was before you came into the picture. Hoo boy. You get what I'm saying here, Dean-o?"

Dean understands, all right. "Sam was too much for you to handle."

"I don't mind telling you, kid, our Sammy can be a major player if he plays his cards right. But that's nothing," Zachariah says grimly. "_Sam's_ nothing. If not for my orders, I could wipe Sam off the face of the planet in a heartbeat with my pinky."

He stops breathing.

"But, since I do have my orders, we do have a problem," the angel concludes peaceably. "You see, Sam? Guy's unpredictable. We thought Sam was the one stabilizing his brother… unfortunately, turns out it was more the other way around."

He thinks he's starting to see what the angel's getting at. "You needed Dean Winchester back."

Zachariah beams, points at him like he's a particularly gifted student. "Bingo. "

He frowns. "So then why didn't you get him? Why me?"

Zachariah sighs.

"That's where it gets complicated."

0000

One beer down. He looks into the can mournfully. _Why is your lifespan so short? _he asks it, as every man asks a beer at one time or another in life.

Maybe he should take it easy. Yeah, maybe he should slow down a little, savor the taste. It's good stuff, after all, or at least not the cheap kind they usually get, which is of course the cheapest kind.

Not watered down with holy water, either.

Rustle of blankets. He watches Sam roll over on his side, make a mess of the blankets. He looks so peaceful, innocent. Trusting.

Guy really has no idea.

Maybe, if he's lucky, the two of them can just stay like this forever. Him half-buzzed in his chair, Sam sleeping peacefully in his bed. That way Sam won't ever have to wake up and be faced with a lie, and he won't ever have to face Sam with what he knows.

It's a nice thought.

He knows better.

0000

"Hell works on a different clock than Earth or heaven. Time's what you might call... bendable. What might be seconds to you up here are weeks, sometimes years for someone in hell. There are reasons for that, of course, but they're enough to make your head explode, so let's just say it's good for the purposes of hell, maybe not so good for whoever ends up there. Long story short, it's impossible – even for us, even for me – to tell, let alone control, how much time will go by when we pull someone out of hell."

"How often do you pull someone out of hell?"

"About as often as you'd expect."

Which tells him nothing, of course. "…Right."

"So you can imagine how dismayed we were when we went to rescue Dean and found out exactly how much time had passed - not years, not decades, but centuries. _Centuries_, Dean. Can you imagine anyone holding out in hell for that long? Let alone retaining anything of themselves? _I _can't, and I'm a goddamn angel!"

"…Is that blasphemy?"

"Eye on the ball, kid. Anyway, long story short, we got there too late. Dean already broke - and that was the first seal, by the way, righteous man, blood in hell, you should really look that one up – but by the time we managed to fight our way down there, depths of hell, Lilith's dungeon, the ultimate bad guy lair, whatever used to be Dean Winchester was gone. Not even the demons could tell us where he was. For all anyone knows – or cares, really – Dean Winchester has pretty much ceased to exist."

He looks away at the neat little pond, rubbing at his arm. Poor Dean, he thinks, and then his heart clenches - God, Sam_,_ this'll rip him _apart_. "You really don't know what happened to him?"

Zachariah shrugs. "Honest truth? He's probably the closest thing you people can get to a demon by now. Running around hell with no idea who he used to be."

He finds himself slowing down without even meaning to.

So it's – it's no use. He can't just ask for the real Dean to suddenly show up and replace him. There's just no way. And even if he could, what – what would that mean for him? What would happen to him?

Whoever he is?

Zachariah matches his pace seamlessly. "But that's where you came in." He beams almost proudly. "Right where we needed Dean Winchester to be."

"But not Dean Winchester," he tries one last time, voice this close to cracking. "You're absolutely sure."

"One hundred percent, kiddo. You just happened to be at the right place at the right time."

"So." He swallows. "So what am I?"

"You're an old soul – literally," the angel adds. "Been in hell for so long, you couldn't even hold on to the idea of what you were supposed to look like. Not pretty, let me tell you." He smiles sympathetically, with a bit of a wince mixed in as if in remembrance. "But you were pure, untainted. One of those rare cases where a soul is so broken it becomes practically new. No trace of who you were or what you did to deserve hell, which, you know, is exactly what we were looking for."

It shouldn't shock him - it makes sense - but somehow it does, all the same.

Right, of course. If he'd already been in hell when they found him, then that means - that means there must have been a reason, doesn't it. There must have been a reason he'd gone there in the first place. Not a heroic sacrifice, not a messed up deal, not some kind of exchange. Something he'd done.

Something he'd done to deserve it.

Right. Of course.

That's what it means.

"There are others like you, so don't go thinking you're all special, but you, you happened to be precisely where I needed you to be. Not to toot my own horn, but I think pretty quick on my feet. So I got to thinking, showed Castiel the way to find you, and gave you everything you needed to be one hundred percent Dean Winchester."

"But I –I don't remember anything."

"Oh no, kid, I can't just give you someone else's memories. Besides, that would be pretty counterproductive - you wouldn't believe me if you were _too_ Dean, after all, Dean's one stubborn son of a gun. I just gave you the framework to work with. You know, mechanical abilities, marine kung fu, pop culture references. That kind of thing."

He never quite understood why people say _you might want to sit down for this _before. Until now - he barely makes it to a bench, shaky legs crumpling under him as he bends over, gasping, head in his hands.

He's nobody. No metaphors, no euphemisms, no smartass jokes. He's literally a nobody.

Hand on his back. It's so warm he wants to flinch away. "Dean, Dean. Don't take it so hard, kiddo. You know how many hell-bound souls get a second chance? Or how many humans would sell their souls - no joke - to know the purpose of their life, what they're meant for? You're one lucky man, you know that?"

He doesn't feel lucky. He doesn't feel lucky at all. He feels like the farthest thing in the world from lucky, actually.

But facts are facts. There's no point in running away.

There's nowhere to run to.

Dean raises his head slowly. "What am I meant for?" he says.

Zachariah's grin spreads across his face, as wide as a shark's.

0000

"-ude. _Dude_. Seriously stop, you're starting to creep me out."

He snaps out of it, suddenly realizes he's gaping dumbly into Sam's puzzled face. "Oh, sorry," he says, flustered. He looks away, stands up and dusts imaginary dust off his pants. "Didn't wake you up, did I?"

"No." Sam watches him. "Something wrong?" he asks, because he can read Dean, can probably tell something's off. Sam knows him so well, after all, Sam knows -

…Who, exactly? Who's Sam reacting to here? His brother? The random soul possessing his brother's body? Which one has Sam's gotten used to, these past months?

He forces a smirk. Best stay away from those kinds of thoughts. "Nah. Hey, how's your war wound?"

As if that made him remember the excruciating pain he was in not five hours ago, Sam frowns and massages his shoulder with his hand. "Feels better," he replies thoughtfully. "Think I'll be fine by tomorrow."

"Oh good," he blurts, too eagerly. Stupidly. "Yay."

Sam raises an eyebrow. Dean reddens.

Awkward silence.

…Wait, no, can't have that, Sam will know something's up. _Crap, think... think..._

He looks around the room, brightening when he notices the groceries. "Hey, you hungry? I got us some food at Giant, we can make sandwiches."

Sam glances at them, frowns, then back at Dean. "Giant?" he repeats, sounding skeptic.

Dean scratches the mark on his arm distractedly. "Well yeah, it's pretty cheap. Plus, I mean, we can't just eat out of diners and Seven Eleven's if we want to make it to sixty, you know."

Stare.

He fidgets, looks away. He hates it when he can't read what Sam's thinking. "Dude, what?"

Sam laughs a little. "Nothing, really, it's just – I've been trying to get you to think about eating well for ages, and you'd never listen to me." He smiles. "Gotta say, glad that's changed."

He feels the blood drain from his face.

How's it possible he's already messed up? It's been _five freaking minutes_, how's it even _possible _that he's already wrecking it?

What the hell's _wrong_ with him?

A hand lands lightly on his arm, and he flinches. "Hey. I didn't mean it in a bad way. You're supposed totake care of yourself, you know. Being healthy's a good thing."

He tries to smile, fails even as he stares ahead blindly. He's messed up, he's _been _messing up. How does Sam not get it, how come Sam doesn't see it? He's _not _Dean, he's so _obviously _not Dean, why does Sam even keep him -

And it hits him suddenly, with all the subtlety of a brick.

He has nowhere to go. If he's not Dean, he's… he's actually a nobody. He doesn't have Sam, he doesn't even have Bobby. There's no reason for anyone to give a fuck about him.

He's utterly alone.

"I – I know that," he says, barely.

Concern. "Then what's the matter?"

And sure, it's bad for him, but how much worse would it be for Sam? The guy practically snapped when he thought his brother was in hell for his sake, he only just started to bounce back from that. If he ever finds out he's spent his time with a Dean look-alike, right when he was beginning to loosen up? If he discovers his brother is still in hell, out of his mind, practically a demon…? It'll _break_ him. There wouldn't be enough of Sam left for Zachariah to even worry over.

The thought of Sam hurt like that...

_No_, he decides abruptly. _Sam deserves better. Sam deserves to be happy._

Dean Winchester's gone, Zachariah made that clear. There's nothing he can do for him. But Sam? Sam, he can save.

…Even if he has to lie.

He looks back at Dean's brother.

Yeah, he tells himself. He can do this. He can.

...He has to.

"You want ketchup on your sandwich?" he says.

Sam makes an exasperated noise. "Damn it, Dean, I hate it when you do this."

The smile comes more easily now. "Do what?" he says, amused. "Everything's fine."

Skepticism. "Fine."

"Yeah, Sam," he says. "I'm fine."

"You sure?" Sam watches him, his big shimmery eyes piercing, wordlessly inviting him to open up. "I'm here if you need me."

Yeah, no wonder Winchester gave his life for this guy, he thinks, but the smile doesn't budge from his face. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure," he answers, as earnestly as he can. "So, ketchup? Yea or nay?"

"Um, all right. Yea."

"Fantastic. Salami sandwich, coming right up."

Sam needs Dean. So, he'll just have to be Dean.

No matter what it takes.

* * *

_A/N: Man, it's when you can't even tell if what you wrote was sad or fluffy that you know you write too much Supernatural fanfiction.  
_


	17. watching over me

_A/N: Thank you all so, so much for the reviews. For the first time in a while, I think I might actually have an idea as to where this story is going. I don't know if that's due to your reviews or my overactive and sleep deprived brain, but in any case, thank you all._

_Warning: a very special guest, midgets and some... gore? Um. Apologies in advance.  
_

* * *

The sky is a nearly seamless shade of blue.

Considering the fog they had to drive through to get here, this is pretty impressive. The trees surrounding them are tall and spread apart in a way that's just right for a good bit of sunlight to poke through the red leaves and lightly toast the back of his neck, and just enough to prevent that feeling of claustrophobia Dean usually gets in places like these. There are birds somewhere overhead, trilling something melodic and pleasant to the ear rather than the grating screeches he's used to, and every once in a while he can see small furry creatures scamper around in the corner of his eye like from a classic Disney movie - seriously, all they need is some light flute music in the background and they'd be all set.

So long story short, yeah, pretty. Almost makes up for the fact that they're back in Indiana.

"Frickin' hate Indiana," he mutters.

Sam glances at him - he's all good now, only slightly weighed by his backpack. "Hm?"

He shakes his head, clears his throat. "How far we got?"

Sam pulls out the Mounds State Park map from his jacket pocket, gazing at the folded rectangle briefly. "Should be close," he answers, frowning at the dirt path twisting up ahead as if there's an 'X marks the spot' sign he's missing. "We'll have to get off the trail soon though, it won't take us all the way there."

Dean grumbles quietly to himself. On the one hand, going off the trail's pretty convenient - basically it means they'll be out of sight of the occasional hiker, which is definitely something to consider when hunting the supernatural. But at the same time it also means trekking through bushes and branches and poison ivy and probably getting lost, which is significantly less pleasant. Not to mention that if something bad happens, calling for help will be about as useful as punching a tree, and very possibly less so.

"Hey," he says grumpily, "remind me again why we're going to a really high cliff to hunt the things that like pushing people _off_ really high cliffs? I'm not the only one who sees a hole in this perfect plan, am I?"

Sam smirks. "Where else are we supposed to find them?"

"I don't know, Sam," he sighs. "The midget store?"

A well-practiced eye roll. "Pukwudgies aren't midgets, Dean, they're Native American trolls. Besides, 'midget' isn't the acceptable –"

"And what kind of name is pukwudgie?" he interrupts. "I don't like it. Sounds like wedgie. Bet that's one of their superpowers, giving people massive wedgies. I hate wedgies," he mutters.

Sam abruptly starts veering into the unmapped wilderness, beckoning Dean to follow with an upraised hand. "Pukwudgie is a very old name given to them by the Wampanoag Indians, way before the word wedgie was even invented. And they are mischievous, but they usually limit themselves to creating fires and messing with hikers. Which you would have known if you had paid attention when I was telling you all this."

"I paid attention," he grumbles, annoyed at the loud rustling his feet make with every step they make on the leafy forest floor. "And what do you think you're doing? Hold up, freak-o, you don't get to be in front," he says, catching up and batting Sam back with an arm as he passes him. "There, now follow along like a good little brother, will ya?"

He can practically feel the confused frown on his back, and pretty soon he can see it for himself because Sam has stupidly long legs and takes no time at all to come shoulder-to-shoulder with Dean. "What? No, I'm in front. That's how we do things, Dean, remember?"

"That was before," he decides determinedly. "I'm not a rookie anymore, Sam, I can pull my own weight."

"You _are _pulling your weight –"

He scoffs. "Stop with the bull, Sam. I know better now."

A familiar wrinkle appears on Sam's forehead, as well as that only slightly less familiar wrinkle between his eyebrows. "What?" he says, sounding flummoxed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means – " he thinks fast –"it means you're holding the map, so I hold the gun, so I get to lead. Bam, logic."

Sam opens his mouth. "But –"

"No buts," he interrupts. "If I'm the pretty face and you're the brain, pretty face goes first. Don't want to scare away the fuckin' wedgies -"

"_Pukwudgies –_"

"Also I'm older."

"Nice try, but you don't even remember your birthday."

"Sure I do. It's sometime in May."

"January."

"Whatever." He plucks away a thorny branch that got caught on his sleeve, holds it up so Sam can walk under it. Let no one say chivalry's dead. "Point still stands," he says, letting it spring harmlessly back into place. "With age comes wisdom, Sam, it's a well-known little factoid."

"Don't think that applies to amnesiacs," Sam tosses back exasperatedly. "And for your information, that argument hasn't worked since I turned _ten_."

"Don't know why, I think it's awesome. Ranks right up there with 'I'm the one holding the conch bitches' and 'because I said so'."

Behind him – oh yes, behind, as in not in front – Sam snorts. "Fine," he says. "But only because you'd get us lost."

Which, okay, low blow, but he lets it go because he's a very gracious winner. "_One time_, Sam. It was _one time_."

"Sure. One time in Yellowstone, one time in Shenandoah –"

"I just don't do nature hikes, okay?"

"Don't I know it," Sam agrees. "And, like, a third of Culpepper."

"All right, shut it," he grumbles.

There's a grin in his – in Sam's voice. "Why should I? I don't see a conch."

"Because I said so. Asshole."

Ten minutes later they're making their rounds through the small radius they've appropriated for their plans. The trap made of oak is already set, the ritual in place, the bait – sprigs of blueberries – placed in strategic locations (read: randomly). They pace in silence, guns drawn, eyes following anything that moves. The wind rustling through the trees overhead and the occasional birdsong are the only things to penetrate the quiet.

Until Sam's voice does.

"Hey, Dean?"

He glances back. "Yeah?"

Sam's face is a curious combination of hope and trepidation. "You're, you're not -" he says, somewhat incoherently, and falters.

He stops walking to allow Sam to catch up, except Sam also stops and stays where he is. "Not what?" he asks, feeling that something's going on in that giant fluffy head, hoping that for once that giant fluffy head would actually open its mouth about what's on its mind.

Giant fluffy head bites his lip. The familiar gaze lands on trees, bushes, sky, anywhere but him.

"You're not… starting to remember, are you?"

It's like a bolt of lightening. He freezes, pain jolting through his chest. Because if only he was who he was pretending to be - if only there was something to remember -

_Stop it_, he berates himself. _That's NOT helping. _

He forces himself to breathe. "No," he answers, aching inside and trying hard not to let it show. "I'm not, Sam. Why?"

Sam's mouth works a little, no sound coming out. The green eyes flicker back to him, studying his face. "…Nothing," he mutters, smile looking strained. "It's just, lately you've been – it's almost like before, when you'd –"

High pitched giggling cuts them off. They look up as one at the ugly naked midgets – sorry, trolls – perched high on the trees around them, exaggerated features knotted up in matching wide grins, shabbily made bows drawn.

"So those arrows -" Dean begins.

"Poison," Sam finishes.

"Of course," he mutters.

The grins widen... then disappear. Along with the pukwudgies.

"Shit," they curse simultaneously, before Dean pulls Sam into a run.

0000

He's sitting on a blue sofa, ratty and discolored from use, the threads clumped into tiny little balls that prick the palms of his hands. It's pretty dark, wherever he is, and when he looks up he sees a dimly lit lightbulb hanging half out of its box, wires disappearing into a hole in the ceiling. There's two small windows to his right, blocked off by thick off-white curtains, and a doorway into what looks like a shabby kitchen to his left. In front of him is an old and dusty TV - crappy, but evidently getting some use, judging by the remote on the floor.

There's a weird smell from some sort of disinfectant permeating the air. It's sharp and harsh on his nose, and seems oddly out of place in this room.

He sneezes. It hurts.

Footsteps sound from the kitchen, and he bites his lip as he gathers himself, tries to stand up before they come in. Somehow it's harder than it should be. He looks down, attempts to place his feet where he wants them. It's not going very well.

"Yeah, I'd stay there if I were you," someone tells him.

"Well, you're _not_," he shoots back gruffly, and looks up. And gapes.

Because, standing in the doorway to the kitchen is... well, him.

"…Oh I get it," Dean says, enlightened. "This is a dream, right?"

Other Dean shrugs, leather coat (really _cool _leather coat, how come he doesn't have one like that?) rustling softly against the doorframe.

"Who knows," the guy replies easily. "You're kind of dying. Could be a weird hallucination for all we know."

He frowns for a second, then remembers. "Oh yeah, forgot about that," he says. He glances back up, green meeting green. "So what are you supposed to be, my conscience or something?"

Snort. "Yeah, just call me Jiminy," Other Dean says dryly. "No, dumbass. I'm Dean Winchester. You know, Sam's Dean."

Does that make sense? Dean tries to think.

Yeah, no.

"You mean," he says slowly, trying to clarify, "you mean you're who I think Dean is. Not, like, actually him."

"Yeah, whatever." The other Dean – the real Dean? – rolls his eyes and then disappears into the kitchen. "So how's Sam?" he calls, voice penetrating through the thin and grimy wall.

"Fine," he answers, then coughs, a little hoarse. "I mean, last I saw anyway. If a wedgie didn't get him," he mutters under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing. Hey, was he, like, an scarily intense control freak when you knew him too?" he asks, promptly forgetting the whole this being just a dream thing.

Quiet laughter. "Pretty much. Sammy's always been, well, Sammy. Kid always knew what he wanted." Pause. "And always went for it," he adds. "No matter what."

"Good to know." He scratches the scar on his arm. "And uh, you don't mind me taking your body, do you? I mean, you're not exactly using it."

"Long as you're keeping an eye on Sammy, I could care less if you fuck a horse." Other Dean's head pokes into the doorway, expression stern. "…Don't fuck a horse."

"Wasn't going to, but thanks for the thought."

Other Dean disappears, doing whatever it is he's up to in the kitchen. The silence drags on, and Dean wonders what to say, what he can ask. Because, asking a man about his experience in hell? Probably not a good way to get into his good graces._ Hey, how's hell working out for you? Do you mind Sam thinking I'm you? _

_…Yeah, didn't think so._

A thought strikes him. If this is a dream and this is Dean, real Dean, then does that mean he looks like himself - his real self?

Maybe not, maybe he's just the ugly shapeless blob Zachariah implied he'd been, but shit, it's definitely worth a try.

He needs a mirror. Is there a bathroom in this place? No time like the present to find out. He straightens his back, places his feet shoulder-width apart on the floor and his hands beside him for support, but the moment he puts the slightest weight on his legs a sharp pain lances through him, buckles his knees, and of all things, his head starts hurting like a _bitch_.

Damn it. The one time he can find out whether he's a balding middle-aged man or a pimple-faced twelve year old girl, and he can't move his freaking feet.

Though maybe that's a blessing, on second thought.

Meanwhile Other Dean – Real Dean? – comes out of the kitchen, a tray in his oven mitt-clad hands. Dean stares at the odd sight, mouth hanging open. There are no words for this.

Except -

"Dude, did you – did you make me mac 'n cheese?"

Other Dean scratches the back of his neck with a mitted hand. "Not for _you _you, but I made a lot, and Sammy's not back from school, so – yeah. I guess. You won't make me eat it all by myself, will you?"

"Hell no," he swears fervently. He reaches his hand to the fork, handle poking out of the yellow-orange goo. "It looks awesome. _You're_ awesome. "

"Tell me that after you try it, huh?" Other Dean says with a grin.

Dean becomes aware of a faint beeping, gradually getting louder. "I think you left your oven on," he says.

"Don't worry about it," Other Dean shrugs, then apparently notices the difficulty Dean's having because he kneels, putting the mac 'n cheese tray within easy reach.

Awesome guy. Really.

Dean reaches again. Misses.

...Misses? How does that make any -

"_Hey _–" he starts confusedly, when his sight suddenly goes blurry. The stupid beeping quickens, uninterrupted beep beep beeps that grate on his ears. "Dude, I – _hey_, c-could use some help, here –"

He watches as if from afar when his fingers curl, bend, snap, his wrists following suit. His chest is all of a sudden heavy, heart galloping, ribs jarring as if from a great impact. As if on its own, dark red blood spurts down his shoulder, flows over his arm, drips in rivulets into the tray, painting the dandelion yellow with sickly scarlet splotches.

"F-fuck," he stammers, and tries to catch the drops, save the macaroni – "Sorry – sorry – "

Other Dean's face is a blurry smear in his vision. "Isn't so easy to be me, is it?" he says sympathetically.

He gives up on the macaroni, curls in on himself. Drops of blood fall neatly from his hand onto the rugged tan carpet. "Fu-fuck," he gasps, shaking, "ow, fuck, Dean, it – hurts, _hurts _–"

"I know, I know. Just remember, Sam matters more. Okay?"

Pain. Everything goes white, white.

0000

_"Remember. Sammy matters more."_

0000

He wakes up messily, gasping in air like he's dying.

Which might not be that far-fetched, considering the circumstances.

"Ow-_ow_," he mumbles, dazed. His nose itches, like someone stuck their fingers inside, and the stupid disinfectant smell doesn't help. It's hard to open his eyes so he doesn't, but there's someone at his side - he can hear the shifting of a chair, soft breathing.

Could only be one person, right?

He exhales slowly. "Did you - did you get the number of… of that truck?"

"No," is the curt answer. "Seeing as how it was a tree."

His brows knit, and he tries to see only to regret it instantly. Too bright, the light's burning through his eyelids. "Huh? S-sam…?"

"Here," he hears, and there's a big warm hand hesitantly touching the back of his. "I'm right here."

He can't move his head. There's a lot of white, white - "Oh, so – so good? You're good?"

There's a pause.

"Sam? Sa-"

"Yeah. Ye- yeah, you idiot. I'm fine."

"Good," he says. Sighs. "Good."

Quiet. Dean tries not to scream - whatever they have him on, it's not enough, it's not nearly enough.

Then, "I thought – I thought we talked about this. How you can't – how we can't save each other."

"Sure?" he says, not really paying attention. It _hurts_.

"But then you – take an arrow for me and – practically jump off a _cliff _– "

"I-I know," he pants, all of a sudden breathless, exhausted. "I – guess I – lied? Ha –"

"It's notfunny, Dean, I thought, I thought you were, I was _sure _you were -" Dean loses him for a moment - "-ean? Oh my God, are you -"

He can feel his eyes water, tears running rivulets on his cheeks - rivulets - "S-Sam," he struggles for breath, "Sam, it hurts, it – ah – ow –" where are they, where is he? "Are we... in the car? Because maybe – _fuck - _I could maybe use a - a d-d-doctor -"

The touch turns firm, and he can feel a shadow looming over him, anxious, attentive. "Hey. _Hey_. What's going on? What hurts? Dean. _Dean_, tell me."

"Everything, Sam," he gasps. His eyes fly open, vision pulsing red and black despite the white. _Stupid beeping_, he thinks mindlessly - "Shit - shit, why, what'd I do to - to deserve - d-damn it, Dean was right, Sammy, it's hard – it's _hard_ –"

"Dean – _Dean, _come on stay with me – Dean – stay with – Dean – _somebody help me_!"

0000

He feels better this time. They must have finally given him the good stuff.

"What happened?" he says, opening his eyes with an effort. "I mean, after."

Sam starts from where he set his head down on the bed. He looks up, eyes red and foggy before they focus on Dean.

He wiggles his fingers, hand still too heavy to lift – man, he must be on a _shitload _of crap – "Dude?"

Sam's glower is hot enough to burn. "I can't believe you," his - the guy says, his voice hoarse, angry. "You almost died, Dean."

Dean fidgets. "What do you want from me?" he mutters, but doesn't pretend he doesn't understand. He stares up at the stupid white ceiling. "You wanted to get done in by a midget arrow?"

"No," Sam says heatedly, "but I didn't want you to – and you almost –" his voice cracks. "You fell - and I was _sure _-"

There's a lump in his throat. "How come I didn't?" he asks instead of replying, trying to force them past this, because he can't say sorry, he just… can't. "I was," he remembers the laughter, the eternal view of blue skies, "I was gone, wasn't I?"

Rustle. He doesn't have to look up to know Sam's standing now, walking to the little window in the room.

"You - yeah."

"So?" he turns his head now. "How come I'm still here?"

Something's rigid in the line of Sam's back. "Castiel came. He – he couldn't really, couldn't really interfere_ – _" Sam leans on the last word, draws it out bitterly, and Dean thinks _there's a story there,_ "but he fixed you up a little, got us to the hospital. It was – it was really bad, Dean, everything broke-broken, it was just a miracle you hadn't…" he trails off. "He fixed you. The poison, the broken - everything -"

"So I'm good now, right?" He feels pretty good.

Sam sends him a dangerous glare. "You were still bleeding inside, a lot of blood. And the pukwudgie poison didn't exactly help your liver."

"Oh." He looks down at the two IV's poking into his arms. There are wires where no wires should ever, ever be. "All's well that ends well?"

Sam says "Dean," in this low, despairing sort of way. "You can't do that again. It was a really close call – if he hadn't come, you would have -"

"See, I knew I liked that guy," Dean says, tries to muster up a smile. "I'll have to send him a thank-you note or something. Or maybe a fruitbasket? What do you think, do angels eat?"

Silence.

Dean clears his throat awkwardly, glances away from the machines keeping tabs on him. Keeping him alive. His mind scrambles for something to say. "What about the - the pukwudgies?"

Shrug. "What about them?" Sam mutters, avoiding his eyes.

He narrows his gaze at Sam, frowning. "You – " his voice catches as a thought occurs to him. "I mean, you didn't –" he stops, feeling sick (sicker).

Oh God. Sam… Sam killed them, he must have. Gotten mad and... and just massacred them all.

And - and yeah, that was the plan, but –

_You should tell him about you and Dean, _a voice in his head says._ Sam's not getting better. Fuck Zachariah's plan, you being here, it's not helping. What'll happen next time he goes berserk? The next time you get hurt? You're supposed to help him stay on the light side, but you being here? It's not helping. You acting like his brother? It only makes everything worse._

"I couldn't waste time," Sam says finally, and the tone in his voice, Dean can finally identify it as frustration. "I went back after - after. Did the spell early. I think… I think I got most of them, but I can't be sure."

"Oh," he blinks. The voice in his head halts, surprised.

_Maybe… maybe he _is_ getting better. Maybe I _can_ stick around._

He coughs. "Well, let's not go back there, okay? Had enough wedgies to last me a while."

Sam's mouth quirks into a not-quite-a-smile. "Yeah."

"And I'll try, okay? I'll be smarter next time, I'll – I don't know. I'll try."

That does make Sam smile. "Good," he says, and finally it seems to sink in that everything's okay, finally his eyes don't look like they're just about to spill over.

Yeah, Dean thinks, it's really too bad he's lying. Because sure, they'd talked about this before, agreed on the no sacrificing deal before - but things were also different before. Before, Sam was just a guy he kind of got stuck with. Before, Dean was just an aimless drifter, not really tied down to anything.

Before, Dean was - well, he was Dean, for starters.

And now he knows Sam - how important he is, how _good _he is. How he always tries to do the right thing, how he wants so badly to save the world and everyone in it. How he tries so hard to look like he doesn't care. How his shoulders quiver when he starts laughing.

So, between that guy? Between that guy, and a nobody from hell who's supposed to be dead? There's nothing to question, nothing to consider, just one inalienable, immutable truth.

Sam matters more.

Dean clears his throat, suddenly uneasy. Because Sam's eyes - all of a sudden they're shining, crinkling at the sides, like he and Sam are bonding, like he and Sam are brothers, like something amazing and great and wonderful is going on when it's not, it's not, it's _not_.

There's no epiphany here. Just what Dean already knows he has to do.

...He needs a distraction. Luckily, he has just the thing.

Dean scratches his nose. "So for our next hunt," he says, "think I've got something. Saw it on the Washington Times site just before we left, looked pretty interesting."

Sam smiles at him with a fondness Dean tries to ignore, and says, "Oh?"

"Yeah, remember how you told me Bigfoot didn't exist?"

* * *

_A/N: Poor Dean. Just when he started to be well adjusted...  
_

_So I'm really, really sorry for the mac 'n cheese thing. I love mac 'n cheese, okay? Please don't think badly of me. And if you're curious about pukwudgies, these do exist - in folklore, anyway. So no, didn't just make that one up. Though the name really is farfetched-sounding, I'll give you that.  
_


	18. that you are mine

_A/N: It might not seem like it, but I do love you all, and I haven't forgotten this story. I know, it's long overdue... what can I say, RL was in the way and the writing process was a bit messy. But I decided to buckle up when a recent lovely reviewer told me they loved the story and hoped to God that I don't screw it up, haha. _

_...Here's hoping I didn't screw this up.  
_

* * *

"Have you looked into this? And by that I mean actually researched, not just glanced at headlines."

"Sure," he answers distractedly, ducking a little even though it won't really help him - can't really dodge that kick. His fingers press down desperately in a rapid repetitive motion. "Washington," _dodge_! "small town," _kick_! "Bigfoot sighting, yadda yadda."

"So that's a no, then."

"Didn't really – " he ducks – futilely, of course – blocks, tries to remember some more sophisticated defensive moves, decides _fuck it_ and goes with a good old-fashioned knee to the groin, "…get a chance – hospital – dying and stuff –"

Sam says something.

He rolls, sweeps out his leg while he's down there, and before the ninja can finish falling he blasts it in the chin with an explosive right hook. It is a sweet, sweet sight. "Sorry," he says, trying to speak quickly so he can maintain enough presence of mind to remember his train of thought (multitasking is _not_ his friend today), "what was that?"

"I think this is bigger than we thought," Sam says grimly – or something-ly, anyhow, Dean's too busy to actually pay attention. "Like, way bigger."

"You mean, like Bigfoot big?" he quips, because, well, how could he not.

Sam ignores the bad pun. Dean doesn't blame him, honestly. "Dean, this town might as well be renamed… I don't know, Friday the 13th or Elm Street what with all the bad luck that's been going on," he says. Dean spares a second to bemoan Sam's blaspheme of slasher films and uselessness at thinking of anything remotely catchy. Only a second, though, because he _is_ sort of doing something at the moment. "It's practically falling apart."

_Critical hit__! _"Are we talking – ack, god_damn_ it – apocalypse?"

"Not sure, it seems too all over the place to be one specific seal – here, look – "

"Oh-no-that's-okay-I-trust-you," he shoots back hurriedly._ Combination! _Take that!

"Dean_,_" Sam says, in what sounds strangely similar to Sam's warning '_don't push me Dean_' voice, the one Dean usually takes care to avoid.

But not today, and definitely not right now.

"_Dude_," he says, in just the same way, and if he doesn't roll his eyes it's only because he might get killed if he does. "A little _busy _here!"

Aggravated sigh. "Would you mind maybe focusing on the case –"

_Instant K.O.! _

_"_No!_" _he moans, and slumps over, forehead against the monitor and fingers splayed over the console, utterly disgusted and sorry for himself. "What the heck, man, Kano just crushed me! _Kano_! This is, this is fucking -"

"Dean…"

"– Rigged, I didn't even get to fight Sub-Zero – freaking Sub-Zero – "

Sam blinks at him. "Okay," he says, and makes that head tilt that always seems to imply that Dean's a few cards short of a full deck. "Whatever. You're dead now, right, so how about you stop with that stupid video game and, I don't know, go back to the business of saving lives."

Oh no he _didn't_.

"Stupid video game?" he echoes, eyes alight with horror, right hand unfurled across his heart, and for a moment he regrets that there's no one else in the arcade to back his play, or at least watch.

Oh well. Show must go on, and all that.

"Sammy," he says. "Dear, deprived little Sammy. Mortal Kombat is a classic. A gem! You think you can find these puppies just anywhere?"

"Uh," Sam looks at him, "_yeah_."

"And that's where you'd be wrong." He shakes his head sadly. "This one's the '95 edition. You can barely find these anymore."

"Dean, it's just a -"

"Hush your blasphemous mouth!" Dean hisses. He strokes the console fondly. "Don't listen to him, baby, you're one of a kind, aren't you? I know, I know, grumpy old Sam here doesn't get you like I do… it's okay, we'll get him one of these days…"

Sam frowns, looking a little sad for some reason, but mostly disturbed. "We haven't come across any arcades until now," he says.

"I _know_." Dean widens his eyes significantly. "Which is why we're making up for it now_._ Remember, doc said I needed to take it easy."

"I think she meant for you to stay in bed," Sam points out wryly, but he's only momentarily distracted. "No, I mean… considering – everything… how would you even know anything about video games? Let alone Mortal Kombat?"

He swallows, hears _mechanical abilities, marine kung fu, pop culture references, that kind of thing_, and has to take a moment to… something… before he can force himself to scramble for an answer. "Uh… maybe Mortal Kombat's awesomeness transcends time and space and amnesia?"

Oh, there's Scowly. Hello Scowly, been a while. "Transcendental awesomeness, right, makes sense," Sam says. "Why didn't I think of that."

Dean shrugs. "Guess you didn't get all the brains after all." He clears his throat and sits across from Sam before the guy can do anything like actually explode. "_Anyway_, you were saying?"

Sam blinks. "Right." He turns his laptop around so Dean can see the webpage he's on. "Look here."

"'_Beloved__ Family Restaurant Cl__oses Down,'_" Dean reads, and then raises an eyebrow up at Sam. "You're freaking out over a restaurant? Oh, the horror. All those hamburgers, cut down before their prime rib -"

Groan. "God, shut up. Look again."

He does. "'_Lottery__ Wi__nner Dies During Robbery_'?" he tries again, meeting Sam's gaze over the monitor. "Ironic, but I mean, kinda makes sense."

"I said," Sam repeats, almost patiently this time, "look _again_."

"'_Mayor's Son Quits Police Force,_'" he continues, and feels his frown deepen as he goes down the page. "'_Local Grocery Vandalized,' 'Could New Movie Be Responsible For Sudden Increase In Heart Attacks?' 'Little Boy - On Steroids?' 'Bigfoot's Finder Leaves Town, Unable To Deliver,' 'High School Student Goes Missing, Is Feared Dead' –" _His throat suddenly constricts. "'_First Grader's Long Anticipated Transplant Turns Fatal,_ _Family Crushed – _I don't… why are you showing me this?"

"Kind of messed up, isn't it," the freak says.

"You'remessed up," he replies, trying to cover a swallow. "Talk – talk about macabre, Sam, _Jesus_."

Sam doesn't even flinch, just rolls his eyes. "I'm not –" and he sighs, sounding put-upon. "Doesn't it seem to you that for a relatively small town, this is a bit more than your average run of the mill bad luck?"

"So? Bad things happen, Sam," he says, eyes stuck on the picture of a smiling, gap-toothed seven-year old boy. He yanks his gaze away, stares out into the empty room, seeing it in a new, chilling light. He rubs his arm. "Nothing new there."

"Not like this," Sam insists.

He breathes for a moment, letting it all sink in, waiting until he's absolutely sure his voice works. "And, what, you think somebody broke Bigfoot's mirror?"

Sam shrugs his shoulders, smiles lopsidedly a little. "Maybe, beats me." He sobers, bites his bottom lip. "I just have this feeling that if we don't stop it, things are gonna get worse."

0000

As it happens, they do. By the time Sam and Dean pull into town, there's a flu epidemic, strange rains that come out of nowhere, and a middle school's been burned to the ground.

It's not – it's not like in the movies. Not like 28 Days Later or Shaun of the Dead, the place isn't a completely silent ghost town, or even empty for that matter. It's not like there aren't little girls riding their bikes up and down their driveways, or families bustling in and out of supermarkets with shopping carts fit to burst, or annoyed-looking teens helping transfer mounds of groceries to the back of vans and SUVs.

It isn't empty, or miserable, or even all that supernatural.

It's just less, somehow. Just… less.

"So Bigfoot guy skipped town," Dean says as he offers Sam his venti mocha double shot skim frappuccino (or whatever - he'd just handed the guy Sam's order on a napkin), trying to ignore the invisible ants crawling up his spine. He sits across the table from the giant, folds his arms against what's either cold or something strangely like it. "Couldn't handle the pressure, I dunno. What's our plan B? Tell me we have a plan B."

Sam takes the cup absently, muttering a thanks. "Yeah, the mayor's son. Think he might have seen something."

Dean blinks. "Dude, really? Of all the bad luck articles you pick the one that sounds most like…" he searches for the right word, gives up, "well, not bad luck?"

Sam looks up at him, wind ruffling his hair. _Haircut_, Dean thinks, not for the first time. "Guy gives up illustrious career – not to mention opportunity to get out from under dad's shadow – for no reason? It's fishy."

"Yeah, like Aunt Mable's clam chowder."

"Still, it's a start." Sam sips at his cup, and promptly spit-takes. "Oh _God_, what _is_ this?"

"What do you mean?" Dean says politely, drinking a perfectly palatable black-like-his-soul espresso. "Isn't that what you ordered?"

"No, there's like… mint, and is that," Sam's eyes cross hilariously as he focuses on the taste, "…is that cinnamon?"

Dean tilts his head to the side. "Wow, Sam, I gotta say, you get points for creativity. Though, no offense, I don't know that you'll be winning Iron Chefs anytime soon."

Sam glares at his coffee, then at him. "I did _not _order this – " he fumes, getting up from his chair -

…Only to leave off, realization dawning in his eyes. Something goes out of him - he practically falls back down, causing a nearly inaudible _fwoosh _as the air goes out of the butt-padding.

"Oh, hardy har har, Dean," he says. "Very funny."

Dean delicately sips at his espresso , then lifts an equally delicate eyebrow. "Don't know what you're talking about, I just gave the guy your note."

"With a couple additions."

"Dude, you need to sleep more, you're starting to sound a little paranoid. But hey," he leans back on his chair, recyclable cup warming his hand through the recyclable cardboard sleeve, "look on the bright side. Now we both know that you don't like mint and cinnamon in your coffee, same way I don't like, oh, what was it, vanilla? Think that's what it was. Anyway, it's actually pretty educational, isn't it? Lesson for the future, I'd say."

Sam stares at him for a moment, then actually laughs, and before he cranes his head, grinning, Dean glimpses a sparkle of something in his eyes. "All right, all right, I'm sorry," Sam says, tossing his cup to the trash can behind him. "Touché."

"Damn straight," Dean says, and allows the rest of the coffee to burn its way down his throat.

0000

The motel doesn't have wireless, so Sam takes the car to the nearest library to google Tony Falkoff's address (only after Dean made fun of the name a bazillion different ways, of course) and see if he can drum up anything else useful, such as the location of the mysteriously disappearing Bigfoot, or maybe why Apoco-town (see, short _and_ catchy) is swirling its way down the figurative toilet.

Dean stays behind, ostensibly to catch up on some z's, but really because the town gives him the heebie jeebies and he'd rather stay as far away from it as possible. Which, at this point, translates to staying in a crappy motel at the far edge of town, but oh well, close enough.

He stares up at the ceiling blankly for a good bit of time, and just as the minute hand on that weird spiky clock starts to run suspiciously far along and he starts to wonder whether Sam actually went to the library after all, there's a knock on the door.

Several, actually.

He looks up warily. Must be the cleaning lady, he thinks, except he specifically remembers putting up a _Do Not Disturb _sign on the door knob. _Maybe they don't know English_, he reasons with himself. "No gracias!" he calls out, and turns his focus back to the dime novel he'd found in one of the drawers. James Patterson doesn't expressly suck, winged babies aside.

Whoever it is at the door, though, they don't seem to know Spanish either. The knocking only gets more obnoxious, and he wonders whether maybe it's some guest who needs to use a literal toilet.

"Damn it," he grumbles, and makes himself get out of bed. He plods barefoot on the fuzzy beige carpet. "Bathroom's down the hall," he says as he opens the door.

"And fuck you too," he hears as something small attempts to shove him aside. "Sam's been ignoring me. Is he here? Let me in."

Dean shoots out an arm, barring the rest of the tiny hallway… rather easily, actually. He pauses, takes a second to process what's going on, as well as figure out what might constitute an appropriate reaction. "Uh, who the hell are you?"

The girl – strange girl, eyes glinting in the daylight like shiny black buttons, hair stiff and brown, weird smirk on her freckle-covered face – glances up at Dean, not appearing all that impressed by his height like he thinks she should be.

"Wow," she says after a second or two of staring at him (Dean forgot he was used to that). "So you really did lose your marbles, huh?"

"Not helping your case," he says, and turns his body to the front to block out more of the entrance.

The girl rolls her eyes in a way that triggers in Dean a weirdly unpleasant déjà vu, like maybe he met her once and she smelled bad, or maybe like he caught her one time picking her nose. "I'm Ruby. Obviously. Now let me in."

_Ruby?_ He tries to place the name in his mental rolodex, which takes less than a second seeing as how it's considerably lacking. Needless to say, the name doesn't ring any bells. "Looks to me like you already let yourself in," he says anyway, cautiously.

She glares at him. "Please, cut it out. What do you guys have here, salt? Devil's trap? You know I can't pass that."

It takes a second for Dean to realize what's going on here. His arm drops from the door jamb once he realizes it's unnecessary. "You're a demon."

"Give the man a prize. What, did Sam not mention me?"

He looks at her ponderously, "Not your name, no." He frowns, realizing suddenly why she looks familiar. "Wait, you're Sam's evil demonic girlfriend, aren't you?" Funny how she'd seemed much hotter from far away. "I thought you looked familiar."

She winces even as she rolls her eyes again – in the normal way, not in the demonic normal-black-normal way, for which Dean is somewhat appreciative. "God, you don't even need your memories to be an asshole, do you?"

He grins to himself. _Guess Sammy really is at the library. _"What can I say, it's a gift."

It's been a while since he's heard such a sincere growl of irritation. Dean again wonders when Sam plans on coming back. "_So_? Can you let me through now?"

"Nope."

Her gaze narrows. "Sorry? What do you mean, no?"

"Sex ed, darlin'. No means no."

The buttons are pretty effective at piercing glowers, Dean notes, though he does find himself unmoved. Ruby says nothing for a long moment, evidently trying to wait him out, but she runs out of patience soon enough and bursts, "So, what, we're just going to _stand_ here?"

"Until Sam comes back and vouches for you?" he raises an eyebrow. "Pretty much. You know what they say, better safe than sorry."

She folds her arms crossly and glares at him for a full and very uncomfortable five minutes, but Dean's pretty good at not giving a damn.

Finally, she even gives up on that. She huffs as she slumps against the wall and throws a sullen look at the hallway clock. "Can't believe I'm saying this," she throws at him grumpily, "but I actually think I liked the old you better."

He can feel his smile grow cold and flat, just like that.

0000

Sam's eyes widen to the size of dinner plates.

"Ruby? What are you doing here?"

"You ignored my texts and screened my phone calls, what do you think I'm doing here?"

"Ruby," he repeats and then clears his throat meaningfully, as if Dean's actually an idiot and can't hear the unspoken _not while he's here, please_. Dean wonders briefly why everyone seems to think he's an inept buffoon. Maybe someone pinned a '_please underestimate me'_ sign on his back when he wasn't looking.

The little demon girl (what is it with supernatural creatures and short chicks?) glowers back, poking at Sam's chest with a stabby index finger. It would actually be pretty funny if, you know, she wasn't a little demon girl. "Don't give me that, _you're_ the one who drew him into this. You know how it works – you don't return my calls, I come and kick your ass. I'm not changing the rules for amnesia-boy over there."

"For God's sake, Ruby…"

"Demon," she shoots back smugly. "Blasphemize all you want."

Sam wearily runs a hand over his face. "I can't… can this wait?" he asks, almost pleadingly, and there's just something so wrong about that, Dean thinks, because Sam doesn't plead with anyone. Ever. It's, like… against his nature.

Or not. Maybe he just doesn't know Sam that well after all.

Meanwhile Ruby retorts, "You tell me, Sam. Can _you _wait?" She opens her mouth again as if to add something else, but seems to settle instead for pointedly arching her eyebrows and pointedly crossing her arms.

It's almost like she's making a point.

Sam bites his lip, evidently conflicted. His gaze flicks to Dean, then back again to the dark-haired flat-chested midget. The midget – demon – _Ruby_ steps closer to Sam, looks up at him with her googly black eyes from under lashes that are definitely long enough to be considered demonic.

"It's been a while, Sammy, hasn't it?" she says softly, hand rising through the air as if to caress Sam's face. "Didn't you miss… " she lets off with a gentle smirk, and her hand completes the arc, sweeps Sam's bangs away from his forehead, and for a long, sickening moment they stand like that, just staring at each other.

"Blegh," Dean mutters, but they don't seem to hear him - Sam doesn't even seem to remember Dean's in the room.

"I…" he says hoarsely, voice fading into uncertain silence.

And okay. _Enough_.

"You know," Dean interrupts loudly, having had quite enough of other people's pointy pointedness, "I don't want to get in the way of you freaky lovebirds, but hey _Sammy_, don't we have a case or something?"

Sam's gaze clears. "Right," he says. He's clearly not all that with it, though, because he totally misses…

_'Just you, and just sometimes' -_

…Nothing. Never mind.

Sam steps back, nodding as he meets Dean's eyes, long face pulling itself into a more determined expression. "Ruby, this _will_ have to wait. Sorry."

The girl goggles, as if this is completely out of the ordinary for them. Dean hopes it is. "But Sam – "

"Later, Ruby," Sam warns, and Dean brushes by her as he tugs Sam along, tossing back a fiercely cheerful "See ya, sweetheart!"

She might have replied with a _fuck you_, but please, like Dean cares. As he gets into their car, the weight of her scowl is deliciously warm on his back, and he considers it a job very well done.

0000

They ring the bell and step away politely.

A matronly woman opens the door. "Can I help you?" she asks expectantly, her narrow gaze sweeping down their cheap suits to the not-so-invisible specks of dust on their unpolished shoes. "We don't take well to missionaries," she adds severely.

Sam smiles politely. "Good afternoon, ma'am. We need to have a chat with Mr. – " he pauses, and purses his mouth in annoyance, almost like he can hear Dean's mental sniggering, "– with Tony."

"We're FBI," Dean adds helpfully, once he feels like he can control himself. He flashes a badge importantly. "So make it quick, lady."

Her expression changes so amusingly fast, it's like looking through a camera while someone else changes the filter. "I… I'll get him, just wait, wait here," she stammers, her eyes large. "To- _Tony_!" she calls and disappears inside the immense house.

Dean shifts his weight from one foot to another as they wait. Just as he's about to turn to Sam and complain about stupid not-bad-luck leads, though, the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming closer halts him in his tracks.

When they finally stop, there's a young man is standing in front of them, arms crossed in front of him like a shield. He's a narrow, lanky thing – taller than Sam, even, and his forehead might be bigger than the Sasquatch's, if that's even possible. "I've had enough of the media trying to make a story out of this," he says, glaring. "The hint's in the name, assholes: fuck. _OFF_."

Dean thinks he likes this guy. "I think I like this guy," he tells Sam.

"Mr. – Mr. Falkoff, I think you might have the wrong idea," Sam says, ignoring Dean as usual. "We're with the FBI."

The crossness changes to wary curiosity. One thing about cops, Dean remarks silently to himself, they definitely don't care much about impressing federal agents. The man tilts his head, folds his arms. "And why the hell would the Bureau be interested in me?"

Sam wets his lips, clearly weighing his words. "We've been led to believe that your resignation might have been caused by… special circumstances."

Suspicion. "I haven't told anyone anything – and I didn't resign, damn it!" he exclaims suddenly. "I took a leave of absence, for fuck's sake, why is everyone making it into such a big effing deal?"

"Why'd you do that, then?" Dean counters.

The guy pales – well, sorta. It's more like his expression turns really, really stiff. "I needed some time off, to… you didn't tell me your names. Where are your badges?"

"I'm Agent Jackson," he returns readily, shows off his badge again. "My partner here is Agent Cyrus."

Tony Falkoff peers at their badges doubtfully. "Samuel Jackson?" he tries, glancing back at Dean.

"Hey, he's cool," he says, grinning widely. "And please, call me Sam."

The guy turns to Sam. "And you're…" Frown. "…Miles Cyrus?"

Sam purses his mouth and glares into nothing. Oh yes, learning to forge badges? So. Totally. _Worth it_. "Please," he grinds his teeth, "Agent Cyrus."

"He _was_ born first," Dean – aka Sam Jackson – adds helpfully. "Technically speaking."

"Right," Falkoff wrinkles his forehead, though he does seem somewhat amused. He glances over Dean's shoulder. "And who's that?"

They frown. "Who's…? " Sam begins, but then they follow Falkoff's gaze to see a short, dressed up brunette walking up the driveway in their direction.

He bites back a groan. _Fucking hell._

"Sorry I'm late," Ruby smirks cheerfully at Sam and Dean, winking. "What'd I miss?"

"Who is she?" their witness/lead/whatever asks bluntly, staring at her.

"Prisoner," Dean replies immediately, and smartly muffles a yelp when Ruby carefully steps on his foot.

She turns to Falkoff with a nauseatingly saccharine smile on her face. "Don't mind him, officer," she says sweetly. "I'm afraid the Bureau has always been somewhat… unwilling to admit its association with psychics. Understandably, of course."

"Of course," Falkoff echoes, gaping, and Dean has to hold himself back from joining him.

The balls on this demon. He almost has to admire it.

She ignores the looks, offers Falkoff her hand. "Madame Ruby, psychic and medium," she beams. "At your service."

"Ruby – " Sam hisses, but Falkoff takes the hand hazily, like a man in a dream.

"Psychic," he says vaguely, as if repeating it to himself, before he suddenly shakes his head and turns on Dean and Sam with a wild look in his eyes. "Wait, so – so you're serious! You know!"

"Know…?"

"That I'm not crazy! You're here, so I can't be crazy!"

"Let's not be hasty here," Dean jokes, but the man continues dazedly, "Wait, is this – is this a government project? Why… what on earth could be the reason for… that _thing_? Is there - I don't even know how you would -"

"Mr. Falk- _Tony_," Sam says. "You must understand that I cannot speak for my department in this... very unique matter. We aren't allowed to share any information with you, but we do need to know everything you have to tell us so that the… problem… can be dealt with as soon as possible."

Tony stares at all of them calculatingly, one by one, and then nervously glances at the quiet, well-manicured lawns behind them.

"Fine," he says at last. "Come inside. Quickly. I'll tell you everything I can."

* * *

_A/N: Hopefully you guys don't mind that I'm taking a bit of a different spin on Wishful Thinking (more time passed, more things go wrong, basically). It will be significant, though, once I get around to it. Hopefully I can get it done decently. Also, if anyone's wondering, Falkoff is an actual last name. No offense intended, however, it's all in good SPN fun._

_I have a feeling the response to this chapter might be... varied. After all, Ruby is a pretty polarizing figure. Personally, I don't much like her (especially not this incarnation of her - talk about bad acting... unless that was on purpose? Or is that what they want us to think? Argh, Show, why do I always overestimate you?), but she is somewhat interesting, so I tried to be unbiased when writing her in. It's not my fault she can be a little... abrasive.  
_

_Ooh and guys, what in dear freaking hell's going on with the sixth season? It might not be a secret that I have a special fondness for Dean, but I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that JA is basically carrying the entire show by himself at the moment. I basically loved all the scenes with Dean, he was very in character and all his responses were (aside from not punching Bobby or Sam in the face, that is) for the most part juuuust right. Lisa's cool too, I really hope she doesn't die - if only because Dean really doesn't deserve it._

_Bobby... yeah, I get where he's coming from - guy's still in pain from season 5, so his idiotic reasoning does have some legitimacy I suppose. Still like him, for all his growing flaws. But you keep this up, Bobby, I swear you're dead to me. Seriously.  
_

_And as for Sam. Is it just me, or has he not been Sammy for a very long time? I thought he came back towards the end of last season... but evidently I was wrong. And there isn't even a legit reason for him to be all blank and mysterious... it's just frustrating now. I wanted a good hug, damn it!  
_

_...Oh well, I suppose that's what fanfiction's for. *sighs glumly*_


	19. a breath away

_A/N: Broken backs, heart attacks, people moving... what can I say, guys? Life happens. To those I haven't replied to - which is probably most of you, please know that I absolutely loved each and every review. I don't know if every writer on this site gets the involved, considerate and frankly deep reviews that I've received, but I really hope they do, because reading them is always, always a pleasure. A lot of you left really amazing reviews (you know who you are... I hope. Well, just assume I'm talking to you, please) and were not happy about me hiding from this fic at all. And, well, as it turns out, I wasn't happy about it either. Which is funny considering that when I finally sat myself down to write this, it took me only two days. Considering how long it's been, that's a little depressing.  
_

_Anyway. Rant aside. You are all lovely, okay? Thank you for bearing with me, and please enjoy the chapter._

_*note: not betaed, self-edited, or even checked with anything like a dictionary.  
_

* * *

It really shouldn't surprise Dean anymore when Sam's right.

"Excuse me," he can't help saying anyway. "Did you just say 'it all started with Bigfoot?'"

Their host shifts uncomfortably. "Uh. Yeah. Sort of."

Sam sends him a smug smirk.

...Fuckin' A.

0000

So the story goes like this –

Graham Norton (whose name Dean promptly forgets after hearing) was a bachelor retired antique salesman with a hobby. The hobby being, of course, roaming the trails of the Northwest in search for the shy and elusive sasquatch.

The guy actually had quite a few false starts for someone looking for something that presumably doesn't exist, and turned out to have a bit of a talent in roping journalists into joining him on his 'escapades,' turning every failed adventure into a media circus. Newspapers loved him when there was a drought in publish-worthy news – the man even had several editors of the local tabloid on speed dial.

Which is interesting to note, because when Nor-what's his face found himself staring into the eyes of the creature he's spent half his life searching for and getting somewhat mauled in the process, the first number he called was the police.

That's where Tony and his partner – Darren something – got to the scene. It was actually a bit bloody, Tony told them, and even with a rookie's eyes it was pretty obvious that for once the batty (and for once battered) old man wasn't trying to pull the wool over their eyes. There was no way his injuries could be self inflicted, for one, and for another there was no faking the panic with which Norton kept muttering _it was him, it was him._ (Him being, they all presumed, Norty-boy's elusive Bigfoot.)

…Which was all very well and good, except there was nothing there - and no evidence that anyone, apart from Norton, ever was.

Sam frowns. "So whoever, or whatever, attacked him just… disappeared?"

Tony shrugs. "That's what it looked like."

So they tried to get a testimonial, but failed completely when the one witness they had went bonkers and refused to talk to anyone, no matter how much they vowed to believe his story. Somehow or other the media got involved, the irony of the hunter becoming the hunted too tempting to turn down, and for weeks they capitalized on monster stories and accounts from alleged witnesses and acquaintances, until in the end the media shitstorm was such that the man finally broke and fled town, leaving the police not one step closer to finding his aggressor.

Reluctantly, despite pressure to continue the investigation, the case on Norton was closed.

A couple of days after the site was made available again to the public, Tony walked by on a passing whim, wanting to see where it all occurred and possibly entertaining an admittedly ridiculous fantasy of finding something everyone else missed and being hailed as a hero. He was completely unprepared when he did find something.

Tracks.

"...Bigfoot tracks?" Dean asks.

"_Something_ tracks," Tony corrects. "Fuckin' huge, weirdass tracks."

Except he hadn't been sure they actually _were_ tracks at the time, because they were - well, weirdass. Not until he kept running across them all over town was he completely certain as to what they were. Eventually he connected them to some robberies in the area, just kid stuff really, and finally he was led to –

To -

"...To?" Dean prompts, breaking the silence.

Tony stands up suddenly, cursing under his breath. His face closes off, like _boom, _curtains. "Forget it. You'll never believe me," he says, as if they hadn't sat for half a freaking hour to listen to his way-too-long freaking story.

"I'm a psychic," Ruby says, very patiently and non-demonic like. Dean almost approves. "If I don't believe you, who will?"

Tony scowls at her. "Psychic," he echoes, saying the word in a way that's as far from the near-worship of thirty minutes ago as it gets. "I'm not talking creaky doors or things that go bump in the night or harmless itty bitty ghosts, ma'am. I'm talking real in your face _crazy_."

"Like to know what kinda ghosts you've seen," Dean mutters. Each one he's met was a total pain in the ass.

"Don't be so quick to judge us," Sam says over him. "We've seen a lot, believe me."

Tony cocks an eyebrow at him, scoffs. "Not like this you haven't."

"Then let's see it," Sam counters. "Show us proof."

They stare each other down, an unspoken conversation hanging in the air between them.

_Look at my muscles, don't I look badass and capable?_

_Bitch please, _Tony responds,_ I'm a motherfuckin' cop._

This goes on for a while, as they both fold their arms and purse their mouths, but eventually -

_Also observe if you will the liquidicity of my shimmering hazel eyes, _Sam quirks his eyebrows.

_Noted. _Tony sighs grudgingly. _Very well, I suppose your pecs are acceptably toned after all. _

...Funny, but in his head Sam sounds a lot like Jackie Chan.

Their witness narrows his eyes in what bears an uncanny resemblance to rather ungracious defeat. "We're taking my ride."

"All right," Sam says readily.

Tony is already halfway up the stairs when he tosses out at them, "And it's a two-seater, so two of you will have to follow in another car."

They stare after him as he vanishes behind a well-dusted banister.

"Asshole," Dean mutters.

"Asshole," Sam agrees.

"So," Ruby says. "I say I ride with Sammy."

Dean doesn't flinch. "Right. I say Sam rides with Mall Cop up there."

Sam's hair flies as his head swivels in Dean's direction – the better to stare at him with, Dean supposes. "What? Why?" he says. Maybe he'd been expecting Dean to want Sam to sit with him or something.

Whatever. This isn't grade school.

"Because you're better with people we're lying to, and I don't really trust your demonic friend," he says, glowering at the demon. It almost doesn't sound like bullshit. Dean's really impressed with himself.

Sam looks at Ruby in obvious discomfort.

"That makes sense," he says hesitantly.

"Yeah, except Sam and I really need to catch up," Ruby cuts in smoothly. "Dean. If you don't mind."

"Oh," Dean replies back just as politely, "but I thought you and I could have a little one on one time. Seeing as how we're both supposedly people who have this giant's welfare in mind."

Sam's eyes glance back and forth between them as if their conversation is a goddamned tennis match.

"Oh," Ruby echoes Dean sweetly, "how positively adorable. But I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable, Dean, I know how you get when you want to kill something but can't."

"Kill something?" he says. "Meaning you? Now what on earth would make you think that?"

"You _have_ tried it several times."

_Good to know_, he thinks privately, and also, _good for Dean_. "That? That was old Dean. New Dean is all about making new friends."

"Cute," Ruby snarks.

"Aw thanks," he replies, and is about to say more when Sam interrupts.

"Guys, guys," Sam interrupts tiredly. "Stop it. Please. This isn't a custody battle."

They start, and turn as one to glower at him.

"What," Dean hisses dangerously (after some righteous spluttering), while Ruby shoots cuttingly, "why don't you just fucking _choose_ then, you frickin' giant?"

"Uh," Sam says, stuck between the two of them. He bites his bottom lip, combs through his hair with his fingers. Swallows.

They continue to glower.

"I… I'll just go with Tony then," he says quickly.

_Too late_, Dean thinks darkly. His victory is substantially tainted.

0000

"We take the Impala," Dean says in an undertone as they follow Tony out. The guy is twirling his keys idly with one hand and with the other carrying, of all things, a six pack of beer. "By the way. If that was in question."

Sam looks at him in surprise. Ruby replies in a similar volume, "What the hell's wrong with my car?"

"Not letting you drive, for one, and also like hell am I leaving a car crammed with weapons outside a cop's house. Or a mayor's house, for that matter."

She rolls her eyes. Sam looks strangely disappointed.

"Fine. Have it your way, mister paranoid."

"Why thank you, evil parasite."

"Guys, please."

A series of beeps greet them as Tony opens a huge, nondescript garage door. The man steps inside nonchalantly while they come to a full stop and just _stare_.

"Wow," Sam whispers.

"Shit," Ruby whistles reverently.

"Holy _fuck_, man," Dean tells Tony. "You have a freaking _Viper_?"

0000

Dean might be regretting his decision a little.

"A mothereffing Viper," he mutters as he drums his fingers on the wheel absently. "For a mothereffing birthday present. Bet the entire squad hated his guts."

"Fucking showoff," Ruby scowls with him out the windshield, to where the sleek blue Viper is taunting them with its superior horsepower and amazing gas mileage and shiny rims. They have to squint as they try to follow its path, gleaming in the sunlight.

The back of Sam's head looks so fucking smug.

"Fucking Sam," Dean says.

"Fucking Sam," Ruby agrees.

They glance at each other uneasily, and let the air between them fall to an uncomfortable silence. Dean stares at the tiny blue dot in the distance and debates between turning on Sam's ipod or putting on one of the cassettes he found when Sam forced him to clean out the backseat earlier. Some music would be nice, he thinks.

His mouth gets the better of him, however. "Why help Sam?" he asks the demon abruptly.

Aforementioned demon doesn't even bat an eye. "Because I want Lilith dead."

"Why? What do you get out of it?"

She glances at him wryly. "I thought you weren't allowed to talk to strangers?"

He blinks in confusion before remembering that right, Sam hadn't even wanted Dean to meet Ruby, so the same probably held true the other way around. "Yeah, well, Sam's not here."

"Not sure he'd like you asking me questions," she says casually.

"I think _you_ don't like me asking you questions," he says. "What. Do you. Get out of it."

She seems to consider him for a bit. "I get Lucifer in a cage," she says finally. "I get hell in chaos for a good long time. And, I get a Sam who has what he wants."

"Which is?"

"Vengeance," she says simply.

No need for her to explain. Dean swallows. "And why do you care what he wants?"

"Are you kidding me?" she says in what has to be a show of incredulity, because there's no way she's not actively trying to make him feel dumb. "Have you seen Sam? Have you seen what he can do?"

"Make a mean french toast?"

She stares at him derisively, shakes her head. Her demonic hair appears very well-conditioned. "He's the most powerful human in the world_,_ you dumb hick! He can do things I've never even seen anyone else do, and this is only the beginning!"

"Only the beginning?" he repeats after her. "What does that mean?"

Ruby stares out the window defiantly and doesn't answer.

He's quiet for a little bit. "Let me see if I got this," he says. "You're helping Sam because you want him to owe you. You want to be on his good side. So when shit goes down he'll help you out. You…" Suddenly it hits him: "You want him to fight hell for you."

She nods, then frowns. "Wait -"

"Well fat chance, sister," he snaps. "Get yourself another puppet. Sam's done with all that power shit. Once we stop Lilith that'll be it, we're gonna go on one heck of a longass vacation."

"Done? He's done?" Ruby says, a strange note in her voice. Her stare feels heavy, intense. "He told you that?"

"Fuck yes he did," he answers right back.

She looks away, expression vaguely contemplative.

"All right. Fine."

Dean feels himself frown. "…What, that's it?"

"Yup," she says easily, carelessly. "That's it. Hey, where the fuck are we going?"

Dean looks, sees the Viper make a turn to what seems like a perfectly nice suburban neighborhood, the type that has white fences and manicured lawns with various gnomes, flamingoes and children's toys scattered across them – not exactly an angry Bigfoot's hellish dominion. "The fuck?" he says slowly.

They drive deeper and deeper into the neighborhood. Dean suddenly realizes that time's running out. "Hey -"

"I have a name, asshole."

He shuts his eyes for a second. "Ruby," he grits out.

"Yes?"

He dithers. "Um."

"...What."

"Is…" he clears his throat. "Is there a way to get someone out of hell?"

The demon frowns at him. "Shouldn't you know all about that? Being as how _you_'re the one who was rescued by an angel and all?"

Dean scowls at a forgotten pink bike left next to a driveway. He swerves out of its way. "I know, just – there's no other way, is there," he doesn't quite ask.

She cocks her head, for once looking intrigued instead of eternally pissed off. "Well," she says carefully. "There are devil gates – but that's like opening a can of worms, you probably wouldn't want to do that."

"No." Not even for Sam. "Anything else?"

She studies him curiously. "Well, technically, Lillith."

"Lillith?"

"She _is _in charge of the crossroads. If you want to get someone out of hell, you can't talk to just any demon – you have to cut a deal with her. It's sort of a have-to-check-with-the-boss kind of thing."

He keeps a straight face. "She wouldn't, though."

"Wouldn't what?" Ruby returns, obtuse.

There's no way he's buying that, but he lets it go. "Make that kind of deal," he elaborates unnecessarily. "I mean, what'd be in it for her?"

Ruby shrugs. "Depends."

"On?"

"If it advances her plans. If you got a good bargaining chip. If she thinks it's funny. Etcetera, etcetera."

"Lovely," he remarks dryly.

"Now _why_," Ruby says, suddenly quiet and serious, "would you want to know about something like that?"

"Just wonder – hey, what do you know, looks like we made it."

They pull up next to an ordinary house with a lawn that could really use some mowing. Without a word to each other, Dean and Ruby leave the Impala and make their way to a grim-looking Tony and a clearly exhilarated Sam.

"Enjoy your ride?" Sam greets them cheerfully.

"Shut up," Dean and Ruby reply.

0000

Tony's staring up at the not even remotely threatening house as though it was the Sahara and he's a Bedouin trying to cross it with nothing but a bottle of water and some goats.

Dean has been watching Discovery channel again in his spare time.

"Don't say I didn't tell you," he mumbles as he hauls the six pack out of his car (Dean still hasn't figured out what kind of purpose that might serve). His hands tremble a bit before he steadies and pushes through the front door.

The three of them venture after him into a dark house. It's strange; there's furniture and miscellaneous papers scattered all over the living room, as if someone got angry at the world for five seconds and then abruptly left the room, and not long ago either. And yet despite that there's a particular sort of indescribable quality in the air, some sort of odd… stuffiness, that makes it all too clear that no one's been here in a while.

Tony clears his throat. "It's me," he calls out suddenly, the other three flinching as his voice cleaves the silence in a way that somehow just feels wrong. "I brought, um, friends."

Nothing. Dean and Sam exchange wary glances.

"And beer," he adds and that's when they all hear the sound of a door creaking cautiously open.

Dean suddenly feels an urgent need to have his questions answered. "What is it we're here to see, again?" he asks in a whisper, but Tony just shrugs in a way that could signify _You won't believe me if I told you_, or (and more likely in Dean's opinion) _I could tell you, but I'd really rather enjoy seeing the look on your face when you find out_.

The dull thud of large, echoing footsteps reverberate through the house. Dean, Sam and Ruby all take a tense step back, their gazes full on locked on the visible part of the second floor beyond the stairs.

The odd footsteps halt. "Did you say beer?" a deep but completely normal-sounding voice says. Dean catches himself before he can relax. He looks at Sam for another nonverbal _what-the-fuck-is-this-hell-if-I-know _exchange, because those are really cool and he likes the assurance that he's not the only one being weirded out here, but Sam is too busy staring upwards. As Dean tries to catch Sam's eye that same someone says "Good, I need a drink."

The footsteps continue. Tony sighs. "What happened this time, Ted?"

There's an oddly wet-sounding scoff. "_What happened_?" whoever it is says. "Iraq, _Georgia_, have you _seen _the news?"

Silence again. Sam's expression changes slowly as Dean watches. First the eyes grow wide as dinner plates, then his forehead wrinkles and that one furrow above his nose deepens, and finally he just becomes slackjawed in a way even Castiel hadn't angeled out of him.

Dean frowns in puzzlement, follows his gaze, and feels his own features slowly morph to mirror Sam's, because on the staircase, lecturing Tony about the tragedies of cocaine and terrorism and prostitution rings in Europe, is a teddy bear.

A fucking _teddy bear_.

…Their lives are _ridiculous_.

0000

The – _teddy bear _ - is probably the rattiest, most pathetic thing Dean's ever seen. One ear is completely gone, stuffing leaking out of it gruesomely – or maybe not exactly gruesomely, seeing as how it's just white cottony fluff as opposed to say, blood and guts – every time it (he?) shakes its head, which appears to be often since it's the gloomiest bear or anyone Dean's ever seen. There's another cut on the side of its head, though that doesn't leak, skinny and small as if something was poked through it, and yet another one at the junction between its head and its body, while the arm that doesn't look like it's been through a particularly destructive wash appears seriously burnt and smells distinctly of charcoal. The burning-cotton smell wafts through the air and merges unpleasantly with the strong odor of alcohol, that Dean suspects has some sort of correlation with the pretty sizable damp patch down the thing's front. Which, incidentally, is riddled with holes.

Ruby seems to have been shocked into silence, which Dean can only imagine to be a rare occurrence. The moment Tony and the – _teddy bear – _venture into the kitchen, presumably to take care of the case of beer, she blurts, "Fuck this shit, I'm outta here."

And oh yeah, Dean would have totally made fun of her in any other circumstance, as is only right - _aww, big bad demon is scared of a wittle stuffed animal – _except he's seriously considering joining her and also he's like _this_ close to shitting his pants. Sam and Bobby never mentioned stuffed animals on the list of the supernatural, fucking Sam and Bobby.

For his part, Sam has just been staring at the thing like it sprouted wings and antlers – or, you know, was a huge talking inanimate object – but he snaps out of it just in time to grab unto Ruby's wrist and prevent her from fleeing.

"Oh no you don't," he hisses, "you're our one claim to credibility here, you're not going anywhere."

"Sam," she hisses back, "there's a _giant stuffed bear in the kitchen_."

"I _know _there's a giant stuffed bear in the kitchen, but you still can't just – "

It's not a conversation that's really threatening to go anywhere, so Dean leaves them to it and goes into the kitchen.

"So," he says, carefully not looking at the giant stuffed bear, "what's the deal with the beer?"

Tony barely glances at him. "It has less alcohol."

Things are starting to come together in Dean's head. "Not a happy drunk, is he?" he asks, resolutely ignoring the fact that he's asking this about a _giant teddy bear_.

"Not a happy anything, really," Tony mutters, shooting the bear a baleful gaze.

The teddy bear _– the teddy bear _– looks at Dean with what would be a doleful expression if an expressionless teddy bear could look doleful. "Happy? How can _anyone_ be happy? Do you know what kind of world we _live _in? Have you _seen the-_

"Yeah I saw," Dean says hastily. He's resorted to focusing on the kitchen counter. "So, uh… what's your story?"

The bear takes a beer with a massive paw and sniffs wetly. "I don't have one," it says glumly. Then takes another sip, which still baffles Dean because he doesn't appear to have any organs, let alone a liver. "I woke up on Audrey's bed and there was _nothing_."

Dean blinks. "Nothing?"

It throws up its arms, beer sloshing out. "Nothing! No purpose, no _meaning_, no clue who I was except a girl who wanted me for _tea parties_," it spits the last part in disgust. "Who am I? Why am I here? What's the _point_?"

Dean shuffles his feet uncomfortably. His scar itches. "Um," he says, and something is lodged in his throat, blocking sound for a moment. "Does all that... matter?"

For something that can't make faces, it's really good at conveying its emotions. "Of course it matters! What's the meaning of my _life_?"

"Isn't that - " Oh god, what is the world coming to, he's playing therapist to a stuffed animal - "...something you should decide yourself?"

And now he's being stared at by a stuffed animal. It's really disconcerting.

"How?"

Fucking hell. "I - I don't know, man," Dean says desperately. "Take up a hobby?"

"I don't have fingers," it says mournfully, and chugs the rest of the beer down. To his right, Tony is looking far too amused for someone who looked like he was marching to his doom ten minutes ago.

Probably because he's an asshole.

"Sports?" he offers.

"What are you talking about? I can't go out like – like _this_," it cries, arms wide. After a second or so it falters, lets them down. "And even if I do, I'll just get skin cancer," it concludes brokenly.

He stares back. "Don't you need skin for that?"

"But I don't have sun screen," the bear replies.

…Right. "You could watch some movies," Dean says.

The bear rests its chin on a dilapidated paw. It's really not cute. "I have. I loved _The Pianist_," it admits sadly. "It was beautiful."

"Oh," Dean says.

"Have you seen it?"

"Um… no. So," he says, struggling to get back on track. "What happened after you, uh, woke up?"

"I watched TV," the bear says.

Tony snorts. "That was a mistake."

"I wasn't at my best," the bear agrees, speech already a little slurred. Lightweight. "That's when this happened." It gestures at its head. "And this," it shows Dean its arms. "Tony did this," it points to its big round belly.

Something stirs uncomfortably in Dean's stomach. "You... tried to kill yourself?" he says, feeling sick.

It peers into the beer bottle gloomily, exchanges it for another. "A bunch of times. I'm very sturdy."

"But why?" he can't help asking.

The bear chuckles wetly, after chugging down most its beer. "Why _not_? I suck. The world sucks. Tea parties suck." It glares at the new bottle. "Fucking _tea parties_!"

"So…" Dean tries very hard to keep his voice even, tries even harder not to think about graves and rising out of them and any parallels this might have to his own life. "Fire's a no? And knives, and… uh… water?"

"And guns," Tony adds, drinking his own beer. "Found that one out myself. No hard feelings," he tells the bear.

"I wish it worked," it replies dolefully. "But I should have known it wouldn't from the first time."

"Right. Excuse me," Dean manages, and flees back to Sam and Ruby, who apparently had agreed to stay put in the living room and let Dean do the fucking creepy legwork.

They stop talking as he approaches, and look at him expectantly.

"You were right about this town being screwed up," he tells Sam. Sam looks back at him in concern. His eyes are probably wide as fuck.

Sam doesn't seem so happy about being proven right for once. "What'd you find out?"

"Well, for one thing," Dean says, "the bear is an alcoholic. And possibly manic depressive." He pauses, adds, "And suicidal. Definitely suicidal."

Sam nods mechanically. "Can we kill it?"

"I…" Dean hesitates, then shakes his head. "I don't think so. It, uh, says it's very sturdy. But it might get skin cancer."

They stare at him. Which makes sense, because he sounds completely nuts.

"Uh huh," Sam says. "We need to talk to Tony."

0000

As it turns out, Tony doesn't have much to tell them.

He looks at their faces. "So much for the FBI, huh? Thought you said you can handle crazy."

"We can," Sam answers hastily. "We're just used to a… different kind of crazy, that's all. But we're good now."

Dean catches Ruby shooting Sam an incredulous look, clearly implying _uh, no we're NOT. _He's somewhat inclined to agree._  
_

Sam ignores any and all incredulous looks. "So is the bear - Ted - Bigfoot? What does he have to do with Graham Norton?"

Tony shrugs uncomfortably. "Nothing. He's not the violent type, and far as I can figure, he was created after the attack."

"You're sure about this."

"Positive." He looks at Dean. "You saw him, he's more likely to give himself cirrhosis than hurt anyone. "

Sam glances at Dean, and Dean nods. "He's right," he tells him.

"So what do we know? Is there anyone other than the… bear, who we can ask?"

Tony shakes his head. "The owners of the house are gone somewhere," he says. "Not sure what happened with their little girl – Audrey. I think she's staying at one of the neighbors' houses, but I didn't want to knock on doors and draw attention to this place."

Because parking here with a Viper wouldn't draw attention, presumably. Rookie. "Did you think about moving it?" Dean asks.

"Yeah," Tony answers wearily, as if he's thought this before. "He refuses. Likes it here, supposedly."

"If you don't mind me asking, what got you to keep this quiet?" Sam asks cautiously. "Not that we don't appreciate it and all, of course."

Tony's mouth twists strangely. "Well, at first it was because… fuck, I was sure I'd gone crazy. But then…" he bites his lip. "Well, when you shoot something and it just says, _thanks for trying_, it kinda…" he trails off, grimaces.

"We get it," Sam says gently. He stands. "Well, Mr… Tony. Thank you for your help. We'll be in touch if we need anything else."

"What are you guys gonna do?" Tony asks. The look on his face is a mix of hope and dread and doubt that Dean's becoming more and more used to seeing now that he's hunting with Sam.

Sam and Dean exchange glances.

_The fuck are we gonna do, Sam?_

_Dean, heck if I know._

"Fix it, of course," Sam says, so confidently that Dean's probably the only one who can hear the uncertain _somehow_ attached to it. "Something's definitely going on in this town. We'll get to the bottom of it."

"Right." Tony looks somewhat skeptical. "Look, do you guys need help? What do you want me to -"

They all wince at the sound of glass shattering. "_Fucking Africa!_" can be heard from the next room.

Tony sighs. "Right. I'll just go… uh, take care of that."

0000

The house looks so deceptively normal from the outside, Dean thinks. You'd never guess it's inhabited by an alcoholic bear.

Speaking of which. "So," he says as the door closes shut behind them. "What's the plan?"

Sam frowns the usual dissatisfied frown. "Well, hard to say," he admits. "I've never heard of anything like this. Wasn't expecting a talking bear."

"You and I both," Dean mutters under his breath.

"And for all that," he nods at the teddy bear's house, "we're still no closer to figuring out how everything's connected - if it even is - let alone _why_ all this is happening."

Ruby harrumphs. "The obvious lead is –"

"The girl," Dean interjects loudly, shooting a sideways glare at her before looking back at Sam. "Audrey. But we don't know where she is."

Sam glances at his watch. "Well, it is two o'clock on a Saturday. There should be kids playing in the neighborhood playground. It's not far, I think we passed it on our way here."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "Won't that look, uh, child molestery, if the three of us go there asking kids questions?"

"Playground's all yours, Dean," Ruby chimes dryly. "I need to get back to my car."

"I'll take you," Sam says before Dean can protest. "Dean, the keys?"

And suddenly, Dean just feels too tired to argue, just too tired for this shit. He tosses the keys at Sam without even looking, politely declines Sam's offer of a ride. The Impala bypasses him easily, the demon sending him an inscrutable glance from the window, and the glare from the rear view mirror hits him right in the eye, which only figures.

But he doesn't care. There's no point, after all.

He stares at the empty road for a moment, stares at the overgrown grass bowing gently under the wind, the ants marching silently on the pavement. The sunlight is heavy on his shoulders, and he takes the cheap fancy jacket off, allowing it to drag on the ground for a moment before letting it hang down his back. His mind feels strange and quiet, distant, and he's not completely sure whether it's because he's thinking too much or not thinking at all.

...It doesn't matter.

With a sigh no one hears, Dean starts walking.

He fucking hates walking.

* * *

_A/N: And season 6 finished off with a... bang? Really crazy bang? *spoiler warning here* I have to say that despite my reservations there were several episodes that I very much enjoyed this season, despite several... um, real misses. And lots of really hastily tied loose ends. The episode with Lisa and Ben kinda killed me, by the way, and I never considered myself all that big a fan of those two. Lisa was especially amazing in this episode. I thought. Still, even if the decision to erase memories was rash and um, not thought out really (not like Dean doesn't still love the Braedens, amnesia or no amnesia) I can understand Dean's point of view. Honestly, I can't help thinking it might be for the best - all the things that Ben heard and saw, the things demon!Lisa said... having huge unresolved issues under the surface and not-talked-about resentment is really a Winchester thing that shouldn't be emulated, and really, I'm glad that in this way Dean could preserve their innocence and protect the love they have for each other. _

_The Sam thing was well done, I thought, but a little... too understated. Though I'm glad they didn't dedicate an entire episode just for that, tbh. I'm glad Crowley's alive and kicking, I'm sad about Eleanor and Balthazar (I liked that bastard, goddamnit) and the whole thing with Cas... well, I'm going to reserve judgment until I see how they run with it. It could be the greatest thing since sliced bread (took me a while to see how that might happen, I'll admit) but it could also be completely trashy and horrible. _

_Well, no one's ever said that Supernatural shies away from the big stuff. We'll find out if it works in September, I guess._

_Rockpaperscissor out.  
_


	20. waiting for courage

_A/N: Sorry for the (very) long wait. I had this scene in my mind for a long time, but it just wouldn't cooperate and__ school has a way of making you feel guilty for not studying, as well as kicking your ass whether you'd like it to or not. _

_Not to worry, I haven't abandoned this story or left fandom - actually season seven kind of made up for season six (and five) in my mind. I honestly enjoyed the leviathans, although I do wish there was a bigger showdown and more repercussions, and while I really hated Bobby dying I loved how Sam and Dean were completely in line with each other for the first time in years. It felt like a big return to form._

_ And I don't know about this upcoming season, but at least the trailer for it looks amazing. I love the potential of Dean in purgatory and Sam being left behind and more alone than ever. Though it's probably too much to hope for a traumatized feral Dean with hell and purgatory flashbacks and a horribly-relieved-and-touch-starved-because-he-was -so-lonely Sam... but I'm looking forward to the fics. :)_

_If anyone's still reading, I'd love to know what you think. As always, my thanks in advance. _

* * *

Someone's crying under his bench.

...Of course someone's crying under Dean's bench. It's his fucking bench.

And with the day he's had, it just figures.

As Bobby likes to say: _balls_.

Dean sighs and then bends over, craning his neck awkwardly in order to peer between his legs. He'd rather enjoyed his sulk til now and this is really breaking his focus, so when he says "Can I help you?" it comes out pretty sharp and pointed.

Teary eyes blink back at him. He can sort of make out fluffy yellow hair and a narrow chin, a red hoodie and worn white sneakers.

It's a kid - okay, a skinny, pasty-faced, girly-looking kid - but still, just a kid.

…What's a kid doing alone in an empty playground?

"What are you looking at?" the tiny snotty twerp says. Dean can see up his nose and it is not pleasant.

Dean returns the not so friendly tone. "What do you think I'm looking at, squirt?"

He gets a menacing glare in response. It's surprisingly effective. "Get away from me," the kid growls (also menacingly). "I don't know you!"

And wow, the _nerve_ on this kid.

"Excuse me?" Dean says incredulously. "Are you for real? _My_ space bubble's being violated, _you're_ under _my_ bench - if anything, I don't know _you_!"

"I was here first!"

"You were not!"

"I was!" the little boy insists.

Dean's pretty sure he would have noticed a crying child under his butt before sitting down. Even in the state he'd been in, it's kind of hard to miss the sniffling. "Um, were _not__,_" he says, because he knows he's right, okay, he knows. "Seriously, we doing this? We can keep going if you want, but I'll probably win."

"Stranger danger!" the boy hisses spitefully. "Stranger danger!"

Which is, needless to say, really not cool. Dean glances around nervously to make sure no one's nearby and suspecting he's about to strangle this child, and then he sends an indignant glower back at the prepubescent asshole he's half-contemplating to strangle. _You're a wanted dead murderer,_ he tells himself, _not like you can make it any worse, right?_ "Stop that, you're the one crying under my chair, you little -"

The big brown eyes squeeze shut, tears leaking out from the corners. "I'm not – I'm not _crying_, you – you _jerk_!"

"Sure looks that way to me," he starts to say, but stops himself because he's a grown man arguing with a crying child, and Dean is in fact a jerk, he's actually probably the biggest jerk in the world.

For Christ's sake. Just because Sam's a douche and Ruby's a bitch doesn't mean he can take it out on some tiny snot-nosed kid.

"Shit, I'm sorry," _tiny snot-nosed twerp_, he adds in his head, because that's the one place where it's always okay to be uncharitable. Wait, can you say shit to kids? "I mean shoot. Sorry. Really. I am a jerk."

A sniffle. It sounds oddly suspicious for a sniffle. "You are."

"Yeah," Dean agrees. "I am."

"A big fat jerk."

He rests the side of his head against his knees, lets his knuckles brush against the ground, and counts to ten. "Yeah," Dean says again. "Big fat jerk. And I'm really sorry for that." He pauses. "You, um, you wanna sit up here? It's… less dark."

The boy swipes at his snotty nose with a sleeve. "Okay."

Dean sits up too quickly because in addition to being a kid-bullying jerk he's also an idiot. He holds a hand to his forehead, wincing, world spinning as the blood rushes back out of his head. The kid, meanwhile, crawls out from next to Dean's legs and sits stiffly on the far end of the bench, fingers playing with the material of his jeans as he noticeably tries not to peek at Dean.

For his part, Dean has no such compunctions about taking measure of the twerp. Not that there's much to look at - now that the boy's out of the shadows, the white of his skin is even more prominent, contrasting fairly blatantly with his runny red nose and the big dark rings under his big weepy eyes.

God only knows how long the kid's been crying. Dean feels like even more of an ass.

They stare out together at the empty playground. After a while, the little man starts to scratch the bench's green paint with his nails. Dean spots a cloud that looks like a big mac.

...You know, sulking is kinda overrated anyway.

"So," Dean offers, "…want to talk about it?"

It's partially to make up for being a jerk, but also because, honestly? Some kindergarten drama would probably be a relief at this point. Dean's life is weird and fucked up enough already as it is, it might actually be nice to see how the other side lives, what normal people - or, all right, normal elementary-school-aged people - worry about. It'll be like an anthropology study. _The worries of a preschooler as compared to a twenty-nine year old asshole pulled from hell. _

Dean could write a freaking _thesis._

"No."

Or not. Dean shrugs. "Want to tell me why you're here by yourself, then?"

Snotty pulls his knees up to his chest and buries his head out of sight. His words are whispered mournfully through the narrow space between his legs. "...Can't go home."

Dean frowns down at him. "What, you're lost?" he says. The kid seems brighter than that.

"No!" Snotty's arms tighten around his knees. "It's… my mom and dad, I just - I can't go back."

"Dude, whatever it is, they must be worried sick about you right now." He thinks for a bit. "Well, not that I know them or anything. But they probably are, if they're alive and stuff."

...Maybe he shouldn't be talking to children. It's possible.

Snotty shoots him a look that strikes Dean as really familiar and also as usually belonging to a six foot something giant. Funnily enough, it doesn't feel any better coming from a midget in preschool. "I know that, stupid."

Dean doesn't roll his eyes because he's an adult. "So what's the big problem?"

The boy hides his face again. There's a minute or so of complete and utter silence, which is pretty much par the course when you're in a car with Sam Winchester, but maybe not so much when it's a pre-pre-adolescent kid.

Dean frowns when he realizes an answer isn't coming, then looks back at the little hair mop. "Hello? Kid?"

The words come out muffled. "They're scared of me."

Dean blinks. Runs it again through his head. Frowns. "Come again?"

"They're scared of me."

He raises his eyebrows. "You. They're scared of you," he says.

A tiny nod.

"Why? You're not that ugly, you know."

Not even a twitch. The boy's serious like a heart attack. "I did something bad. Really bad."

_Like what, _Dean wonders, _steal a candy bar? _"Everyone does bad things sometimes." Which, now that he's said it aloud, is probably the most useless thing anyone has ever said in the history of, oh, ever.

He wonders whether he should be calling someone.

Bobby. Yeah. Bobby looks like someone who'd be good with kids. Though he'll need to leave Kennedy behind - the Rottweiler has a tendency to consider everything smaller than him as a God-given chew toy.

"Not like this!" said smaller kid says, meanwhile.

"If you say so," Dean shrugs. Far be it for him to argue. "So let's have it. What'd you do?"

The boy straightens his legs, shuffles his feet, kicking them dolefully in the air. "I don't know you."

Point. "Oh, right. Uh."

There's no reason to do this. So Dean hasn't had the best day either, whatever. He doesn't need to talk about it. Certainly not to Snotty, who's just a kid, just an annoying, snarky kid.

...An annoying, snarky, utterly miserable kid who obviously does need someone to talk to.

Goddamn it.

"Well for what it's worth, my name's Dean Winchester," he says, then grimaces and figures that if he's going to be honest, he might as well do a decent job at it. "Maybe Dean Winchester. Hopefully Dean Winchester." He breathes in, exhales. "...Okay, so I don't actually know what it is."

Snotty's eyes widen to the size of dinner china. Not that Dean would really know what that looks like, since he has yet to adequately search a house that has things like fancy silverware and dinner china. But the phrase still stands. Dinner china, that's what they look like.

"You don't know your name?" he says in a hushed whisper. Dean can understand the fascination; after all, it does sound pretty cool.

…Not so cool to experience yourself, though. He frowns into the distance. "It's a long story."

"Are you a spy?"

Dean sends him a flat look. "Do I look like a spy?"

Snotty shakes his head earnestly. "You look like the homeless guy from the TV show my mom doesn't like."

He blinks. What do you say to that? "...Thanks?"

A shrug. "I watch it sometimes." He wrinkles his forehead and it's definitely not cute, the kid looks like an anemic old man. "What's wrong with your name?"

Dean leans back, watches the clouds in the sky. "Well, I'm not sure if it's really mine," he admits. Some part of him recognizes that it should be strange to say it out loud for the first time, like saying it might make it real, but whether due to the fact that he's had some time to think about this or that he's talking to a complete stranger of a kid, it's actually surprisingly easy. "Which feels... pretty weird." _There's_ an understatement. "So anyway, thought I should be on the lookout for a new one. Any ideas? I was thinking Bruce Wayne, but maybe that's too obvious, what do you think?"

The boy peers up at him. "I know a Dean," Snotty says, and weirdly enough it actually sounds like he's trying to be comforting. "He's okay."

"All Deans are okay. You should always trust Deans," he says with a nod. Then abruptly makes a face. "Unless they try to sell you something. Or invite you to their car. You should never trust people who sell you things or invite you to their cars."

He gets a scoff and a dismissive, "I know that, I'm not stupid."

_You are sitting in an empty playground with a man you don't know, _Dean thinks, and some of it has to show on his face or eyebrow-region because the kid narrows his still-surprisingly effective glare.

"I can take you," he says matter-of-factly, sounding so very sure.

Dean eyes him. Little boy, maybe, _maybe_ eight, floppy straw-like hair, narrow shoulders, skinny arms, no body mass to speak of.

"Yeah right," he says skeptically.

The big eyes narrow even further. "Arm wrestling contest," Snotty declares.

He purses his mouth. There's this annoying voice in Dean's head that sounds suspiciously like Sam._ What are you doing, Dean? Are you seriously about to arm wrestle a little kid, Dean? Just how old are you, Dean? You know we have a job to do, people to save, right, Dean?_

Annoying Sam-voice has a point.

…Aaaand annoying Sam-voice can suck it. "Five bucks says I beat you."

0000

He's willing to bet that was the quickest five bucks the kid ever made.

Dean gapes at the hand that just pummeled his to the dirt. It's hanging at the kid's side, deceptively small and fragile-looking, a stark white against the red of Snotty's sweatshirt.

It took like five seconds. Dean's entire arm _hurts_.

He hands the money over numbly, still in shock. He's pretty sure he's going to bruise tomorrow.

...So much for relaxing kindergarten drama; this is definitely, definitely huge talking teddy bear territory.

The boy withdraws his hand, money clutched tight in a tiny fist. The pale face is all twisted up and wrong, its delicate features lined with edges of self-deprecation and resignation, things that even Dean knows have no business being on a kid's face.

"They looked like that too," he says, looking at Dean. "My mom and dad."

Dean's still busy gaping. "Huh?" he says intelligently.

"Like they're afraid."

He considers the little boy for a moment. "Snotty," he says. "I'm not scared of you."

Scowl. "Don't call me Snotty! My name's Todd!"

"Whatever. I'm still not scared."

The dark eyes watch him skeptically. "Yeah you are."

"No, I'm not," Dean says, so serious Sam's head would probably explode into gooey chunks of brain matter (you're welcome) if he saw him. "Kid - Todd. I swear to you, I'm not. I'm not afraid."

If anything, Todd's the one who looks like he's about to bolt.

"You're not?" he says, and Dean can't help but lay a hand on the absurdly skinny shoulder.

"No," he says, and then exhales. "...But you have to tell me how you did that."

0000

Turns out that kids? Pretty stellar storytellers.

"Wait wait wait," Dean says. "Back up. He lost his _leg_? ...Are you sure this is PG?"

Todd nods enthusiastically. "But it's okay, because he makes himself another one and all the Vikings see how good dragons are and everyone gets one in the end."

"Totally seeing this movie," Dean decides, and motions Todd to continue.

(So he gets sidetracked sometimes. Sue him.)

0000

He's crying again.

"Todd," Dean says with a sigh. He hesitates, then gingerly wraps an arm around the narrow shoulders - extenuating circumstances, the kid can practically beat him to a pulp with a pinky. No one can call him a creep. "I told you, man. It'll be okay."

The kid turns his face into Dean's jacket. "No it won't. I put them in the _hospital_," he says, voice trembling. "It's my fault. It's really my fault."

Dean swallows. "You couldn't have known wishing would work," he tries. "It usually doesn't."

The small nose rubs against Dean's side, narrow shoulders trembling under his arms. Dean wishes he'd stop - it does weird things to his chest.

"I wish it didn't," Todd sobs, "I wish I never made that stupid wish at all!"

"Listen, Todd." God, he's so freaking _small_. "You were bullied, man. These kids were assholes." Can he say that? "Buttholes. And you're only, what, eight? Of course you were angry – heck, I definitely would've been in your shoes. I'd probably wish for super-strength too."

The big brown eyes glance up, agonized. "But it wasn't _fair_."

He tightens his grip, because this is - this is important, Todd needs to know it's important. "You're right. It wasn't fair, it really wasn't fair. And you should be sorry, okay, that's the right thing to feel here. You should probably tell them that, too."

The tear-streaked face hides in the leather again. Dean sincerely hopes his jacket will be okay after this.

"But you know, though," he says, "all that doesn't mean you had the wrong idea. You didn't even know you had powers when you stood up to them - bet that felt pretty cool, right?"

He doesn't get an answer, just hiccups and quiet sniffling into his shirt.

Dean sighs, then smiles a little. "Hey. Kid." He ruffles the floppy hair. "Wanna know why I'm not scared of you?"

Floppy hair flops as Todd nods into his jacket.

"Because you know it wasn't fair. You know it's not right to beat up someone weaker than you. Do you have any idea how rare it is for someone to realize they did something wrong? Do you know how awesome you are that you did? Next time something like this happens," not that it ever will if he has any say about it, "you'll know just what to do, and you know what that'll make you?"

Todd pulls back to look up at him, eyes still all wet with tears. Dean decides to never have children.

"What?"

Dean grins. "A freaking superhero."

Todd wrinkles his nose. Somehow it's heartbreaking, Dean doesn't even know. Damn kid, never having one. "But I… I made a really big mistake."

"Yeah," Dean says. "But you know who else made a really big mistake? Spiderman." He pauses. "Please tell me you know who Spiderman is."

"Peter Parker," Todd says.

...Or maybe just one. Dean's awesomeness should be passed on to the next generation anyway, it'd be a crime otherwise. "Have I mentioned how cool you are?"

Frown. "No."

Geeze, this kid. Dean clears his throat. "Well, I should have. Cuz you are. Anyway. You know what Spiderman always says?"

"With a lotta power comes a lotta responsibility," Todd says, because Todd freaking _rules_.

Dean's grin widens. "Exactly." Well, sort of exactly, but Dean's not one to quibble. "And that's true for everyday stuff too, man. Even if you didn't have powers. Like, if you're really good at…" his mind scrambles for an example, "…shooting stuff, you can't just shoot anything you want, you know? Or if you know, say, a secret, you can't use it to hurt people. Stuff like that, see?" And okay, maybe he's going a little too far with that and reaching over the kid's head, but so what? Dean has issues too, all right?

Todd looks a little cheered up, if maybe understandably confused. "You're weird, Dean."

He grins again. "You don't know the half of it."

0000

Todd wimps out as they turn the corner, which is a shame because he's a freaking awesome kid and made it this far.

"I – I can't," he says, shrinking into his hoodie, eyes pleading wildly up at Dean. "I just can't go back."

"Dude," Dean says, holding back a sigh. Kids these days. "You gotta go back. I told you, I have to go to Sammy and figure out what to do about the wishing well, and I can't just leave you out here alone." He holds out his hand. "All right? Let's go."

The kid flinches away, taking a step back and looking like he's only a second away from bolting. "But I scared them."

He tries to be patient. "So they'll get over it. Come on, Todd, we're almost there."

Another step back. "I scared them," he repeats. "They can't love me if they're scared."

Dean feels himself freeze, and suddenly, lump in his throat, doesn't know what to say.

_"Dean, are you - so you don't think that I'm -"_

_"What, evil?"_

"I can't go back." Todd's little fists tighten against his sleeves. "I'll just scare them again."

"Todd," he says, stepping forward.

"I mean it, Dean!" Todd yells angrily, and then his face crumples. "I mean it."

And whatever, jeans, he doesn't care, they're thrift-store buys anyway. Dean kneels on the ground, places his palms to either side of Todd's neck and looks him right in the eye. "Todd, your parents love you, all right? They're not about to stop just because you think they should." He really, really hopes he's not proven wrong, or there will be words, goddamnit, there will be _words_. "Now, I'm going to take you home, and then me and Sammy are going to take care of all this crap so your life will go back to normal. Okay? Sounds like a plan?"

Hesitation. "You can really fix it?"

"Sure, yeah."

"Promise?"

And Dean doesn't know how he'll do it, he doesn't have the first clue about how to take care of freaking wishing wells, but he nods his head - because of course he will, of course he fucking _promises_, what else can you do with big wet eyes looking at you?

"I promise," he says, and can't even make himself regret it.

He's _never_ having children.

0000

"Thank you so much," Todd's mom says again and again, smiling as she blinks back not-so-hidden tears. Her one-armed hold on her son is tight and white-knuckled, but for some reason Todd really doesn't seem to care. Dean wonders what it's like to be hugged like that. "You don't understand how worried we've –"

"It's okay. No problem," Dean says, again, and grins awkwardly at Todd, who just looks back at him contentedly. "He's a cool kid, we had a good talk."

She glances back at the house. "I – would you – would you like lunch, or - or a drink? My husband'll be back soon, he was out - looking, I'm sure he'd like – I'm sure he'd love to thank you."

He steals a look at Todd, who's nodding at him, looking at him almost imploringly with his huge dark eyes, like he agrees with his mom, like he really wants Dean to stay.

And to his own surprise, Dean finds he wouldn't really mind staying.

"Thanks," he says, and then, because them's the breaks, "but I actually gotta go. Work, you know." He winks at Todd, who can't seem to wink back without looking like he's having a minor seizure, but Dean appreciates the gesture all the same. "Just make sure you don't lose the little guy again, all right?"

"We won't," she swears and laughs, open-faced and happy, and Dean's suddenly pretty okay with leaving, too. Todd'll be fine.

She's herding Todd towards the door when Dean has a sudden thought. "Hey Todd, wait!" he calls, and Todd turns, his fist tight on his mom's dress. "What about Bruce Parker? That any good?"

Todd turns, frowns like he's deep in thought. After a moment, he raises his gaze to meet Dean's and shrugs.

"Dean's better," he says, and smiles.

0000

Three blocks away, Dean takes out his phone from his pocket and turns it back on.

Sam picks up on the first ring. "_Where the hell have you _been_?_" he says immediately. "_I've been calling you for an hour!_"

"Sorry, something came up, tell you all about it later," he says. "I'm on my way back to the park, think you can make it there in five?"

"_I'm already here_," Sam says, and boy does he sound huffy. "_Like I told you I'd be_."

"Yeah, well. Sorry."

"_You better be, you jerk,_" Sam says, reminding Dean a lot of the stern, floppy-haired seven-year old he just left. "_Honestly, Dean, call next time before going off radar. __I thought maybe something went wrong._"

Dean rolls his eyes, but walks faster. "What, in a playground?" he says. "Give me some credit here, Sam, even I'm not that lousy."

"_Anything's possible with you,_" Sam says, but he sounds more relieved than angry now, which can only be a good thing. "_Besides, this place is incredibly creepy._"

"I know, right?" Dean says enthusiastically. "I'm not sure why, but it really reminded me of that, uh, that Pink Floyd video, you know, the one with the, uh, flowers and – "

"_If you mean what I think you mean, stop right there,_" Sam says. "_You made me watch it when we were kids. I had nightmares for _weeks_. And it was really hard to explain my flower-phobia at school."_

He's definitely bringing up the flower-phobia thing later, when Sam's less pissed at him. "Flower-phobia?"

Or now. Either way.

_"I was slightly wary of flowers for a very short period in my life_," Sam snaps, sounding irritated. "_It was completely your fault and you were very sorry when you weren't a complete asshole about it._"

He widens his eyes even though Sam's not there to see. "Asshole? Me?"

"_You sent flowers to my locker every day for two weeks."_

"Obviously trying to cure you."

"_You took pictures._"

He's definitely digging around in the trunk next time he's by himself. Or maybe they're in Sam's duffle bag? Or a safe house - do they have a safe house? Or albums? He hopes they have albums. He'll have to ask Bobby next time he calls.

...Man, before-Dean always sounds so awesome.

"_I hate it when you call yourself that,_" Sam says quietly, and Dean realizes he'd spoken his last thought aloud.

"Um," he says, blankly. "Sorry."

After an awkward moment, Sam comes to his rescue. "_So I take it you didn't find anything, did you," _he says, and sighs. "_Back to the drawing board."_

Oh, right.

"Actually, about that," Dean says. "What do you know about wishing wells?"

* * *

_A/N: In case anyone was wondering, the movie Dean and Todd talked about was, of course, How To Train Your Dragon (sorry for the spoilers) and the video Sam and Dean talked about was Empty Spaces by Pink Floyd, which I watched recently and was very glad that I wasn't a kid again. _


	21. I won't heed your warnings

_A/N: Wow, the response to the last chapter kind of... blew me away? It was amazing to see how many people still read and care about this story. I'm so incredibly grateful. _

_I didn't expect to have this chapter done so soon, but, well. I'm not sure when I'll get to the next one - school's just started again and once more the odds seem slim. Though I'm slowly getting back into fandom - I'm finding season eight, as off as it is (what is UP with Sam, seriously), is strangely intriguing. Liking this Benny a lot. Not to mention, dirty PTSD Dean? Please can I have some more._

_Hope you guys enjoy this chapter - which might as well be called 'why Dean should really stop to think before doing_ anything.'

* * *

So the thing about seven year olds is, they tend to be vague.

Or maybe vague isn't quite the word. Oriented on different details than most people, might be a better way to put it.

And this is fine, usually, cute and all that, but kind of a bummer when you need something specific. Because as observant as children are, they're not exactly trained, and don't have all that much background knowledge to draw from. No one's taught them yet how they should look at the world – that this is how you scan a crime scene, this is what you should remember for later and this is what you should definitely repress for when you grow up and come to understand what mommy and daddy might have been doing on the kitchen table that night you snuck downstairs to watch TV.

Which accounts for the really random and sometimes disturbing things people remember from their childhood.

Not that Dean would know, of course. But, on a completely unrelated note, interviewing witnesses? Not as peril-free as one might assume.

Back to the point, though: if you ask an adult where they might have sojourned and possibly made a destructive wish last Thursday night, they might tell you that why it was at Lucky Chin, good sir, a three star (on Yelp, at least, if you happened to keep up with such things) restaurant on the corner of Ashburn Road and Prosperity Drive, after the second light and across from the thrift shop owned by a sweet but cheap German woman named Birte.

…A kid, on the other hand, will tell you that it was some kind of restaurant with weirdly named food, weird red-lettered menus, weird goopy chicken fingers, and that it smelled a lot like the bus.

It's actually astonishing how unhelpful the latter description is in a small Midwestern town.

"Smells like the bus," Sam repeats for the hundredth time, doing that thing he does with his face that means he's surprised and disappointed but ultimately resigned to your general inadequacy as a human being. "That's what he told you. That it _smells like the bus._"

"It's what he said!" Dean replies defensively. Then wonders, because it does beg the question, "What do you think that means, anyway?"

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose – Dean doesn't know why, not like it did him any good the last three places they've been to. "And you didn't think to, I don't know, ask him _where it is_?"

"Dude, the kid was – " Crying, but the bro code stops Dean from saying so. "He didn't know, anyway," he says instead. "I mean, come on Sam, he's seven and been to that place, like, once. Kids that age just don't pay attention to that kind of stuff, you know?"

"We did!" Sam says. "Dad made sure we could find our way back, no matter where we were! He'd strand us in the middle of freaking nowhere with nothing but a water bottle, and if we didn't get back in time for dinner you bet your _ass_ he'd come and make us do it again!"

Dean blinks.

"O-okay," he says slowly. "But you know that's not… normal, right?"

Sam opens his mouth like he's about to object, his whole face pulled into a frown, then just looks at Dean as if surveying the contours of his face (they have not changed, as far as Dean knows) and comparing them to what he remembers.

And then he turns away, jerkily, as if he doesn't like what he finds.

Dean swallows, bites his lip. For all that things between them have been getting easier, he never knows what to say when it comes to stuff like this.

"Sam," he says, rubbing his arm. "Look, I didn't -"

He doesn't know how to characterize it, exactly, but Sam makes this strange and quiet kind of noise, something that's not quite a sob, but not quite a laugh. Whatever it is, it just sounds… well, painful.

"Role reversal," he mutters, and his mouth quirks for an awful split second in a smile that doesn't come close to reaching his eyes. "Don't know if I'll ever really get used to that."

Dean's throat works, but nothing comes past his lips. There's a moment of just aching, awkward silence. And then -

"...Funny, isn't it. The stupid things I miss about you."

It's as if Dean isn't there. The words aren't meant for him.

He gets that.

Dean swallows again. "How about I get the next one myself? Where is it, Franklin? I'll get it. You just… uh, chill here for now, all right, I'll call you, we'll hook up later." He forces a wide grin, salutes Sam sloppily as he turns and walks away. "Maybe get a salad!" he calls out over his shoulder, because funnily enough, between all the restaurant hopping they actually didn't have time to get a bite.

Sam just stands there. Dean doesn't look back to see the expression on his face.

He already knows what he'd see.

* * *

It shouldn't come as a surprise that by the time they find the place, it's dinnertime.

"I have a good feeling about this one," Dean says. "It has a certain… what's it called, je ne sais quois."

"You mean beef lo mein," Sam says wryly. He seems much more cheerful now, like the time apart did him some good.

Dean'll take it.

"And that," he agrees, mouth full.

Sam eats his noodles daintily through judicious use of chopsticks. Dean uses a fork and a knife like a civilized person and smacks his lips as obnoxiously loud as he can, mainly because the face Sam makes at him is hilarious. And partly also to get back at Sam for laughing at Dean when he tried to use chopsticks himself.

Being petty can be incredibly satisfying.

"So," he says finally, and nods his head at the fountain to his right. "There it is."

"Looks like your typical plastic fountain," Sam says, then shakes his head. "Only one we've seen so far so it's probably the real deal, but we have to make sure." And what do you know, even the great food-fu master can accidentally slurp. "Look around. Find clues."

"Whatever you say, Nancy Drew." Dean rolls his eyes and makes a show of looking around, because sometimes it's fun to be an asshole. "Ooh. Man, that table over there look like a clue to you?"

Sam follows his gaze. "What do you mean?" he says, scrunching his forehead. "…Huh. Well, I mean, clearly they're fighting and there's a clear disparity of… looks – but, well, I guess that could be – "

Dean stares at him incredulously.

Sam frowns for a second, then sighs. "Funny, Dean."

Dean grins, and wipes at his mouth with a napkin before rising from the booth. "Hey, not my fault you're shallow," he replies, searching through his pockets before he finally finds what he's looking for.

"What are you doing?" Sam says, looking up with an even bigger frown on his face. For a second he almost looks young and perplexed and puppy-like, but then he gets that steely spark in his eye and that no-nonsense high school gym teacher note in his voice (not that Dean can remember high school either, but he's assuming) that make Dean suddenly remember what a big, badass, but mostly _big_ hunter Sam actually is. "Dean. What are you doing."

That sounds a lot more like a declarative statement than an actual question, though, which is why Dean's assuming he doesn't have to answer. So instead he just shoots Sam another grin, walks over to the fountain, and tosses a coin.

0000

Of course he catches hell for it when he goes back to their table.

"What the hell did you do?" Sam hisses at him, in that way of his that radiates barely controlled violence, but which Dean had learned to mean that Sam is actually running in panicked little circles inside his head.

Not that worried and frightened Sam is all that much more pleasant than angry scary Sam, but it's a lot easier to look at, not to mention ignore.

Dean shrugs. "You wanted to see if it's the real deal, so."

Sam looks torn between congratulating Dean on his logic and tearing him a new one. "That's not - what were you _thinking_? Don't you get how dangerous this is? How incredibly stupid that was?"

Dean grabs hold of his fork and knife and takes another stab at the noodles. "Okay, I'm a little jaded, whatever. We're hunters, Sam, going to the Laundromat is a freaking expedition."

There's a loud squeaking of the front door, and they wince at the gust of cold air that accompanies it. The other hunter makes a face. "Is not," he says, but he sounds somewhat mollified. "So, what did you wish for?"

Squeaky footsteps. Dean doesn't look up, finishing his noodles with a slurp. "Last Wednesday disagrees," he shoots back archly. "And I wished for –"

"Excuse me," someone with a smoker's croaky voice says. "Are you Sam Jackson?"

Dean and Sam frown at each other, then turn their heads as one.

There's a short, stocky cop standing next to their booth. Mid-forties or so, glasses, brown eyes, oily salt-and-pepper hair he's tiredly running his hand through.

Dean raises an eyebrow.

"Can I help you?" he says, utterly mystified.

The cop gives him a long-suffering look. "Sir," he says with a deep sigh, "I'm going to need you to come outside."

He glances at Sam, who looks baffled and partially amused and gives him a wry shrug in return. Dean sighs loudly as he stands. "Cop meeting," he stage-whispers to the other patrons, as well as the one waiter staring at him in unabashed curiosity.

Sam shakes his head.

"What?" Dean says.

* * *

There's a long, awkward moment where Sam and Dean kind of just gape helplessly at the scene in front of them.

"Is this yours?" the long-suffering officer asks long-sufferingly as his hand becomes covered in droopy drool.

Dean opens his mouth a couple of times, intending to say something, but the words he can't think up yet get lost in transit and all that comes out is just a weak, "Hnnnha?"

The cop raises his eyes to the cloudy sky like he can't believe how little he gets paid to do this. Then he runs a long-suffering hand down his long-suffering face.

...It really cannot be overstated how long-suffering this guy is.

"Is this your pony, sir?"

"Uh," Dean says, uncertainly.

The officer looks at the huge beast, then narrows his eyes. "Your name's on the papers. Is this your pony, sir?"

He has no idea how to reply. "…Yes?" he tries. "I guess?"

He takes out his notepad, making some kind of… note, Dean presumes. "I see. Sir, are you aware that letting a large animal roam unrestrained and unsupervised within city limits is a thousand dollar fine?"

Sam shoots Dean a murderous look.

"…No," Dean manages. "No I was not aware."

0000

Twenty minutes later and a thousand dollars poorer, Sam whirls on Dean as the cop strolls away, hands in his pockets and looking suspiciously not long-suffering anymore.

"Really, Dean? You asked for a _pony_?" he hisses, his floppy hair actually flopping with rage. "Couldn't you ask for something smaller? Like, I don't know, a _sandwich_?"

He throws up his hands, taking care not to hit the large head nuzzling his pockets. "Really, Sam? You wanted me to waste a wish on a sandwich?"

"I didn't want you to wish at all! And a pony, Dean? Were you even thinking?"

"I'm sorry, okay? It was the first thing that popped to my head!"

Sam glares at him for a really long time. Then swallows visibly.

"A pony," he says, sounding a little choked.

"Yeah," Dean says heavily. "A pony."

Sam's mouth quivers.

0000

Dean and Sam cackle like a couple of jackasses for what must be a good and utterly ridiculous ten minutes. The pony gnaws at Dean's jacket, seeming to find the leather pleasantly intriguing.

And for a little while, all's well and good in the world.

0000

Until the pony becomes overly attached, that is.

0000

"Oh god oh god oh god," Dean pants. "Just give it to him!" he yells over his shoulder, because apparently when overwhelmed with fear Dean can actually run faster than Sam. "I can get another one!"

"No!" the other man yells defiantly, though his eyes are wide as he clutches the leather jacket even closer to his chest. He stumbles on something Dean can't see, yelps as absurdly sharp teeth snap perilously close to his fingers.

"Sam!" Dean cries. "You idiot!"

"I'll catch up, just keep going!" Sam shouts, voice strained.

Like hell he will. "Like hell I will!" Dean says, and slows down enough to deliver a powerful kick at the side of the pony's head. It rears back, wild mane flinging from side to side as it (he? She? They never find out) roars and shakes its head in a terrifying show of fury. It huffs and snorts gruffly as it lands on all feet, nostrils flaring.

"Holy crap," Dean whispers, but Sam just pulls him roughly by the arm.

"_Run_!"

* * *

They manage to ditch it behind a grocery store. At least they think they manage to ditch it behind a grocery store. They can't hear galloping anymore, which maybe means they've ditched it behind a grocery store.

Dean bends over, bringing a hand to his side which is in agony. "Did we lose it?" he pants, legs already tensing and warning of their imminent intention to cramp.

Sam sneaks a peek around the corner, then visibly relaxes. "I think so," he breathes.

Dean straightens, lets his head knock back against the red brick wall in relief. "Fuck," he says, closing his eyes shut. "The wishes turn bad, Sam. The wishes turn very bad."

Sam nods, then tilts his head to the side.

"To be fair," he says, after a moment, "that one was never any good to begin with."

He opens his mouth to protest, but then he thinks about it and just shrugs his shoulders instead. "True."

They grin tiredly at each other, too worn out to do much more than slide down the wall and wait for the terror to stop.

"Pony," Sam shakes his head.

"Angry pony," Dean replies with a nod.

* * *

They crack up again.

* * *

Sam and Dean take another couple of minutes to catch their breath. And maybe also giggle helplessly, because that's really all you can do when you've been chased by a five-year-old girl's dream.

Dean's willing to bet that this was a first for both of them, memories or no memories. He's also willing to do pretty much whatever it takes to make sure this is the last time this ever happens.

The somewhat disturbed laughter dies off as they finally manage to pull themselves together. Then Sam says, "Let's go back to the motel. And never mention this again."

"Agreed," Dean says, and they do.

* * *

_A/N: __In case anyone was wondering, the pony was planned since the very beginning. Though maybe not the being-chased-by-one scenario. That one was new._

_(Sometimes people would complain that this story's too angsty, and I'd just wonder what fic they were reading because I had this scene playing in my head.)_

_Also, in case anyone else was wondering, that was indeed Dean's leather jacket the pony grew all too fond of._


	22. dreams must collide

_A/N: I'm on a roll! Seriously don't know what's happening here, but I'm not complaining (and hopefully neither are you guys). I still have a backlog of reviews to reply to - I swear I'm getting to them as soon as I have a moment to breathe. Tests every week, not the easiest time in the world. Thanks to all of you for your understanding - as always, I can make no promises, just do my best. It seems like most people enjoyed last chapter and didn't think it was too cracky... in retrospect though, maybe I went a little too far with that. Oh well._

_Also, guys, I've decided - that's it, I like Benny. I like Dean having friends. I could watch the Dean and Benny and Cas show almost all day._

_I think I'd like Sam to have friends too. Someone should tell the writers that normal life = not just a girl and a dog. (Though that dog? Adorable. Girl somewhat less so, but I'm waiting for the storyline to get better/more believable) I don't think I've seen Sam really connect with a dude (on a friend level, people!) since Brady or maybe the guy from the pilot episode whose name I don't recall. Maybe it's just me, but I never really got the impression he and Cas were all that close - Dean was always the glue there._

* * *

He doesn't even _like _fishing.

Dean sighs and slumps forward, resting his chin on a fist. It is relaxing, he has to admit, tugging a bit on the line. Helps that there's a hell of a view, a serene lake that stretches as far as he can see, birch trees to either side of the dock he's sitting on, vague gray sunlight hitting him from behind a cloud.

_Boring_, he thinks glumly. _So boring._

"Dean," someone says from behind, and he turns.

"Cas!" he greets, grinning as he looks up at the angel. "Whatcha doin' here?"

Now as far as Dean can figure, the angel looks frazzled as a matter of course, but for some reason the divine being's hair is even more wild and windswept than usual. "Visiting," he says, striding up the dock.

Dean scoots to the side. "Here, have a seat," he offers, swinging his legs. "Should be dry."

There's a long pause, the angel hesitating, before finally taking him up on the offer with one smooth controlled motion. "Thank you," he says, sounding cautious.

He grins at him, then feels a tug on the line. "Shit!" he exclaims, bracing himself, but after a short struggle when he hauls it up the hook's tellingly empty. "Assholey little mothers–" he curses under his breath. "Don't happen to have some bait on you, do you?"

Castiel frowns, but rummages in his pockets for a bit. Dean looks on in amusement – it hadn't really been a serious question.

He's a good guy, Cas, Dean decides.

"I'm afraid not," the angel says at last, somewhat apologetically.

He sighs. "Not like I'd know what to do with it anyway." Since he doesn't actually know how to fish. He tosses the line back into the water anyway, though, because it's something to do at least.

They sit there for a while in silence. He keeps expecting Castiel to speak up, but the angel doesn't seem to be in much of a hurry. The leaves on the birches dappling the shore hum quietly as they shift with the wind, and the waves softly rush the columns holding up the dock. The outline of the sun is just barely visible, hidden behind a white sheen of clouds.

It's nice, being quiet but not alone. Dean reflects that maybe this is the point of fishing, and if so, he could learn to get it.

A thought suddenly crosses his mind, and he frowns.

"This is weird," he says. "…Right? I mean, this is definitely weird. You're not supposed to be here, are you."

Cas nods. "No. This is a dream."

Dean whistles. "Cool powers, man." Much better than… yeah. "So I'm really sleeping right now?"

"Yes. You…ah." Curious head tilt. "Strange. Only part of you is present."

Whatever that means. He shrugs. "Maybe because the other parts of me are sleeping," he points out.

Frown. "No, you are –" he cuts off abruptly. "I see."

Dean peers down. Watches the water reflect his feet back at him.

There are things he's learned since the last time they spoke. Things Zachariah told him, things he's learned for himself. Things Dean hasn't really said out loud, except as some ramblings to a miserable kid who had no idea what he was going on about.

Probably doesn't count.

Maybe he should be pressing for information, he thinks, except there's nothing more he really needs to know beside _you are no one_ - nothing that could help, anyway. Maybe he should be confronting Cas about everything, or for not telling him, except… well, there are things even angels can't help with. Maybe he needs some closure, except there's really none to be had here. Nothing can change who he is, or, more to the point, who he isn't.

…Besides. Dean doesn't feel like being contrary or angry. If this is his dream, he wants to enjoy it.

Maybe he's a coward.

"I never said. Thanks."

The angel looks at him. "What for?"

He lifts his shoulder in a shrug. "You know. Bringing me back."

The heavy gaze shifts away. Dean sneaks a glance. The angel looks almost… unhappy. More so than usual. "I was doing my duty."

He swallows, rubs his arm. "I know. Still." Castiel could have taken anyone else back. Anyone.

_There are others like you, so don't go thinking you're all special.__  
_

Silence. Then, "You're welcome."

Another silence.

"How… how long did it take you?" Dean ventures, this time looking at Castiel. The angel's staring ahead, eyes a mile away.

"Decades. Centuries. Too long," he says heavily, "and for that I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," Dean dismisses with another shrug. "Don't remember it, but… it is, you know, hell. You did what you could."

The angel closes his eyes briefly, then casts them at Dean, blue and unfathomable but so very earnest. "I'm not sure I deserve your forgiveness," he says, almost bitterly, and his lips part again as if to add something on to that – but he doesn't.

Dean breaks off the unnerving eye contact, choosing instead to observe the ground and the mostly useless fishing pole. "Tough luck," he says, suddenly annoyed despite himself. "You got it anyway."

"I – thank you." The angel peers at him, forehead bunching into a myriad of parallel lines. "You are…" he pauses, then settles on, "a puzzle."

Dean blinks. "I'm a what?"

"You have no faith, and yet you trust freely. Peculiar."

He frowns, rubs at his scar. "Sorry. Not the religious type, what can I say."

Castiel watches him intently, almost curiously. "That's not what I meant," he says, with the absent interest of someone behind a magnifying glass. "This life is new to you, and so you are cautious, believe little of what you're told. Question everything. And yet, in the end, you accept the answers you're given because you cannot believe ill of anyone. It is a rare thing." He tilts his head, then concludes, "As I said. A puzzle."

Dean shifts uncomfortably. "Hey, that's not – that's not true. You make me sound like some kind of wimp."

"Righteous man," Castiel corrects him, then seems to reconsider. "Or perhaps righteous child is a more accurate description. I'm afraid the loss of your memories has rendered you rather naïve."

Dean has the vague sense he should be insulted. "Hey!"

The angel presses on, ignoring him entirely. "That is something that will have to change. Things are not always as they seem, Dean. You have yet to see the world for what it is, but whether or not you want to, you will. You must, because we have need of you."

The words echo, get lost in the breeze between them. Dean stares at him, hardly knowing how to respond.

Finally, Castiel sighs, his mouth curling a bit on the sides. "However, despite everything, I… I must confess I am glad for it. I am glad it is you I brought from hell.I am glad you are who you are. I am glad you believe in good, despite having so little cause for it."

Dean wrinkles his forehead. "…Me too? I guess?" He grins suddenly. "Wait, are we having a moment? Does this mean we're friends?"

For the first time since Dean's met him, the angel laughs.

It sounds pretty good.

"Yes, I believe so," he answers, and there's a light in his eyes that says he means it.

0000

"So what are you doing here, really?" Dean says, pleased that his rolodex has expanded to three – well, four if you count that lawyer girl in Cincinnati. A grumpy old man, a serious little boy, and an honest-to-God (heh) angel.

Let it not be said Dean isn't an equal-opportunity friend.

The bottom of Castiel's shoes touch the water lightly, the slight depression causing a repeating loop of concentric circles. "Recent events in heaven have been troubling. I find myself… questioning. What is right, what is wrong…" he leans back on his hands, face raised to the sky. "It is not as simple as I thought."

Dean eyes him, the wrinkled jacket, the shadows on his cheeks. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's that it never is," he comments offhandedly. After a moment, he half states, half asks, "I guess you can't really talk about it, can you."

"It's better I don't," Cas affirms, sounding regretful. "These matters are… sensitive."

Dean gives him a couple of minutes of quiet, then mentions casually, "…Still doesn't explain why you're here."

The angel smiles a little. "It had been a while since our last conversation. I meant to observe your welfare."

"Oh," Dean says slowly, because there are ways to say 'I wanted to see how you're doing' without sounding creepy. Such as, just for instance, _I wanted to see how you're doing. _"Thanks. I think."

"In addition, your mind is peaceful," Cas says, apparently unaware of how absurd what he's saying is - this is Dean's mind he's talking about, after all. "I… it is a refuge. I hope you don't mind."

He shakes his head, shrugs. "If that's what floats your boat, anytime, man." He thinks, reconsiders, smirks, wiggles his eyebrows. "Well, long as the dream isn't _too_ interesting, if you know what I mean."

The way Castiel tilts his head and frowns, though, it rather seems like he doesn't.

Dean sighs. "Never mind." Not about to explain the human sex drive to an angel. "You're welcome here whenever, all right?"

Castiel looks oddly… concerned at that, actually. "You would allow me entrance?"

"Sure." He casts the line out again, even though it really won't do anything. "I mean, if there's nowhere else and you need it, why not?" He gestures at the lake. "It's just a pretty dream. I'm not stingy."

The angel peers at him, frown deepening. "You have no real knowledge of my history, or my intentions. You have no idea what I'm capable of. You have no reason to think me trustworthy."

Dean blinks back at him. "Do I need to?"

Castiel answers him with a flat look. "Yes," he says. "People generally do."

He shakes his head uneasily. "It's just a dream. This is like if I invited you to hang out on my porch. Or Bobby's porch. Nothing wrong with that, it's just being buddies." He frowns. "Right?"

The blue eyes study his face. Dean wonders what the angel sees – maybe there's special angel-vision that tells them things humans can't know.

"You should be more careful," Cas says at last, looking faintly more troubled than usual. "…But you have my thanks."

Dean looks again into the water, fingering the fishing rod absently, and wishes he knew how to fish. "Sure. I mean, we're friends."

Cas smiles a little. "Yes," he says. "We are, at that."

0000

They sit there for a while longer, Cas as relaxed as Dean's ever seen him. He doesn't even disappear into thin air as is his usual M.O. – just acts as if he has no other angel duties to attend, as if there's nothing to take him away, nothing urgent or anything. As if it's just nice here and he wants to stay, so he does.

It's the most peaceful dream Dean can remember ever having. "There should be dinosaurs next time," he decides.

Castiel turns his head. "I never much cared for them," he says. "They exuded a rather penchant odor."

Dean boggles. "You've seen _dinosaurs_?" he says, then he remembers who he's talking to. "Oh, right."

"I am an angel," Cas mentions for the millionth time.

"Sorry, my bad," he grins. He thinks, frowns. "Must have been pretty boring back then, right? Like endless reruns of Jurassic Park, except no screaming humans and a lot less drama."

"No, the world was not much different in that regard," Cas says, making Dean blink. He leans forward, both hands gripping the edge of the dock loosely. "But I admit I was frequently too occupied to observe it fully. There were other battles to be fought."

Battles. "Right, Zachariah said you were a…" he hesitates. "Some kind of soldier."

It's funny, because Cas wasn't exactly moving to begin with and there's no perceptible change that Dean can see, but still somehow everything about Cas just _stops_.

"…Zachariah," he says, an odd note in his low voice. "You met him?"

He rubs the back of his head. "Uh, yeah. We talked for a while." Understatement.

"I see," Castiel says, after a minute, and before Dean can decide whether to talk about _it_ anyway, changes the subject. "Yes. I was a warrior."

He makes it sound so cool.

"And now?" Dean asks.

Castiel sends him an unreadable look. "I fight when I'm needed. Much like you."

He laughs uncomfortably, trying to ease the sudden weird tension that cropped up between them. "Don't know that I'd call myself a warrior."

"What would you call yourself, then?" Castiel asks. He says it with this weird intensity that kind of reminds Dean of the way Sam had sounded, back when Dean met Bobby for the first time, _what did you think you did? _Except this question's harder.

...What _would_ he call himself?

Dean Winchester, except, right, that's not him. A hunter, except, nope, it's someone else's life. A brother - except he isn't, really. Never was.

A human, except… well, he doesn't even really know that for sure.

In conclusion, a lot of things he'd really rather not think about. "I'm a lover, not a fighter," he smirks, then adds cockily, "But I do kick ass at both."

Cas laughs and looks vaguely surprised by it. "You are an extraordinary man, Dean Winchester," the angel says, blue moon eyes crinkling at the corners before he abruptly sobers, smile disappearing. "I will protect you."

Dean blinks, startled. "What, why would I need –" he says, but by then, of course, his friend's gone.

"Goddamn it, Cas," Dean swears, and a second later wakes up to Sam's AC/DC alarm.

* * *

Dean and Sam come back to Lucky Chin's bright and early the next day, because as Sam lamely puts it, the early bird gets the supernatural wishing well taken care of sooner.

The manager tries to give them trouble at first, but they shoulder their way past the door and effortlessly bypass the poor man's protests. Gotta give credit where credit's due, though, he's a persistent bastard – the waiter who he's been using as a translator seems to have given up interpreting the steady stream of Chinese coming from the guy's mouth, and instead has resigned to sighing and looking at them disapprovingly. "Sir," Sam finally gets in snappishly between words Dean can't understand, "I don't want to slap you with a 44/16, but if I have to I _will_."

And English or no English, when Sam's had it with people, people are usually pretty quick to notice. The manager's eyes widen along with the waiter's, and they both deteriorate to incomprehensible mumbling as they take a hurried step back and pretty much flee into the kitchen.

"Nice," Dean says appreciatively, watching them scatter, and realizes he has a long way to go before he gets that perfect note of world-weary authority down.

Which maybe is a good thing, he thinks. There's a lot of world he's yet to see, after all.

"You pick up a couple of things here and there," Sam says, eyes crinkling at the corner in a brief smile. Dean gets a strange déjà vu. "Don't know how long that'll give us though, so let's work fast."

"Right," he nods.

They walk up together and survey the fountain, Sam frowning, Dean rubbing the six-o'clock shadow on his chin. (He finds it makes for an interestingly grown-up sensation.)

Dean opens his mouth, closes it. Tilts his head.

A minute or two passes. So much for fast.

"…Okay, I'm getting nothing," he says finally. "It's just a fountain. Maybe we should drain it? I don't know, what do you think?"

Sam jerks, as if he'd been somewhere else entirely. "Yeah, good idea," he says, still sounding distracted.

Dean glances sideways at him. Sam's sideburns are getting long, he observes distantly, and again he debates the merits of shaving them off while the kid's sleeping. It's getting embarrassing. "Penny for your thoughts?" he offers.

"Hah," Sam says. "I was just… thinking. About stuff."

He raises an eyebrow. "Funny, stuff, that's exactly what I was thinking about," Dean replies. "C'mon, Sammy boy, what's the matter?"

Sam exhales, then smiles a little at Dean, looking strangely touched. "…Nothing. Nothing important."

"Uh huh." Well, Dean can take a hint. He nudges Sam's side. "So? What would you wish for?"

Sam flinches, then starts shaking his head. "No, I wouldn't –"

"Seriously?" Dean wants to know. "Seriously?

Sam stares at the glorified bathtub. "There's always a catch," he says.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Don't be boring, Sam. Come on – one wish, anything in the world, no catch. What would Sam Winchester wish for?"

"I…" Sam hesitates. He gets this scary cold expression on his face, but it abruptly fades and instead he just looks at Dean for an awfully long moment. He turns his gaze back to the fountain. "A sandwich, probably," he says, smiling, but his eyes are blank like he's not seeing anything at all. "I'm starving."

"Crappy wish," Dean says. "You should at least spring for some chips," he adds, surprising Sam into a laugh.

He keeps his expression light, sending Sam a cocky one-sided smirk since that's what Dean's supposed to do, that's what Dean does. But it doesn't take a genius to read between the lines.

If he could, Sam would wish for his memories. The real Dean Winchester's memories. The memories this fake one never had.

It doesn't matter what Dean does, none of it's enough.

Because in the end, Sam just wants his brother back.

* * *

_A/N: Not a very actiony chapter (sorry, pony's gone for now) but hopefully those who wanted more Cas are satisfied. I feel like their relationship here is somewhat different than in the show - it kind of has to be. Not going to analyze it though - if I did my job well, at least some of it should be apparent. :) What I am concerned with is whether I have a handle on Castiel's character or not... I feel as though his character's gone through so many changes, it's hard to remember what he used to be like. Not to mention he's just difficult, overall._

_Thank you for reading, and for your reviews. They are very much appreciated. :)_


	23. there's no reason

_A/N: Hey guys. Sorry for the delay - seems as if life is full of rough patches sometimes. I had the idea for this chapter in my head for a while, it just needed to be written. The good thing is, though, that the next chapter is mostly done. You won't have to wait too long, I think._

_I'd like to thank you all again for reading, and especially for reviewing. I'm glad most of you seem to like where the story's headed (and it is headed somewhere, yay!), and I'm really glad no one (so far) thinks I'm bashing Sam with this fic. The last thing I want to do is bash anyone. Both brothers are__written with lots of love, although naturally you get to hear a lot more from Dean._

_** Fixed and added some things. Sorry for the rough update!_

* * *

"Teddy!" he yells, banging on the door. "Teddy, or Ted, or whatever the hell your name is! Open up!"

Nothing. Fuck. He sticks his ear to the door, trying to listen over the rapid staccato of his heart. He thinks he might hear shuffling, maybe big heavy footsteps, but if it's not wishful thinking it means that anyone coming to answer him is going about it _way too slowly._

He punches the thick wooden door in frustration, which, as it turns out, is unsurprisingly unhelpful. "Teddy, you asshole, open up! Please!"

"What's wrong?" a familiar voice asks from behind.

Dean jumps and whips around. "Todd?" he says, completely caught off-guard. "What are you -" he cuts himself off and shakes his head. Not the time to be a spaz. "Never mind. Go home, okay, go home right now, I can't have you around here –"

Todd frowns up at him. "But why –"

No time. Dean pulls the little boy behind him, practically shoves him at the door. "Buying time for Sam," he says tersely, and glances out into the street. He doesn't see anyone, but she must be here, she must have come after him or it's all been for nothing and that is not an option. "Keep knocking, okay? Tell him I need his –"

White.

Pain.

He blinks at the sky, dazed.

The ringing in his ears fades just as a slim shadow falls over him. "When I'll kill you," it promises, "no one will separate us again."

He spits blood at the ground, muffles a groan. He really hopes that was from him biting his tongue and not, say, his spleen exploding. From the way his left side's feels like it's on fire, though, it might actually be the latter.

"Dean!" someone else shouts. "Stop it, stop it, leave him alone –"

Shit, Todd. Dean doesn't even think before tackling the wishing-well-boggled bitch to the ground, and they roll across the lawn, well the fuck away from the kid. After an all too brief scuffle Dean finds himself with said crazy bitch straddling his stomach, her crazy long manicured fingers clutching his jacket, holding him down.

And he's actually down. He actually can't get up.

It literally makes no kind of sense.

"Oh, _come on_," he says. "You wished for super strength _too_?"

"No one gets between us," she hisses, just before the world goes white again.

Which answers that pretty well.

Goddamn his life.

He recovers faster this time, manages to break her hold - luckily, technique still means something when pitted against freaking superpowers - twist his hips and slide her off him. "No points for originality," he says, muddling to his feet. He wipes his mouth with a sleeve. "But no, can't say I saw that coming. Man, girls really do go nuts for a ring, huh?"

"It's love," she snarls, grabbing the lapels of his jacket before throwing him at the side of the house like he's a fucking piñata.

The breath goes out of him in a wheeze.

"Leave him alone!" Todd says again, and this time Dean looks up, just in time to glimpse a small blonde blur fly gallantly to his defense.

Oh no. "Todd!" he shouts, and struggles to sit up. "Fuck, don't – get away from her –"

A tiny hand touches his shoulder. He jumps - well, more like jolts in place a little. Whatever.

"It's okay, mister," a little girl's voice tells him. "He's a superhero."

He twists his neck to stare at her - Jesus Christ, where are all these _fucking _kids coming from? "Who are you?"

"Audrey," she says, and pats his back. She's wearing pretty pink overalls. "We're here to see my Teddy."

He's completely discombobulated for a good couple of seconds, but then something clicks. "Audrey," he repeats. "Right. This is your house."

"Yes."

Dean grabs her arm, forgetting to be gentle. "Do you have the keys?" he asks her, looking into her big absurdly calm eyes. "Audrey, do you have the keys?"

"Mm-hmm."

Good. Awesome. He can work with this.

"Audrey, I need you to listen to me very carefully, all right?" he says, hands on both her skinny shoulders. "I want you to go into your house and tell your Teddy to come out. I don't care how scared he is, I don't care who sees him, it's very important that he come and help me and Todd."

Her eyes are wide. She nods.

He loosens his grip, lets his voice go soft. "And after that I need you to stay inside, got that, sweetheart? Go to your room and hide, and no matter what you hear, no matter what happens, _you have to stay inside_. Can you do that for me?"

The girl nods again - it's crazy how small she is. How calm she is. "I can do it," she says, and holds up her little purple keychain, as if to prove it.

He smiles a little. "Good girl," he says, and lays a hand on her head. "Now go."

She nods again. "Don't get hurt more," she scolds him, actually shaking a finger in Dean's direction, and then she turns away and runs, keys jangling and pigtails flying.

Dean stares after her. What a girl. What a freaking cool girl.

Sam'd laugh so hard if he were here.

...Right. Sam. Hunt.

He has to keep focused.

Dean staggers to a stand and limps across the lawn, planting his feet in front of the house like some kind of wounded guard dog. No way is he going to let Crazy over there get past him - he doesn't know how much he's really capable of right now, but at least he can make sure the girl's safe. And as long as she does what he told her, she will be. Probably. For now.

Fuck. She's all alone in there. Where the hell are the adults in this town? Her parents?

He wonders if that was a wish. Hopes it was. Hopes whatever Wes and Sam do will fix it.

Like, really, crossing-his-fingers-with-all-his-heart hopes that fixes it. On this hunt they've had some insane strokes of luck – Ruby getting Tony to trust them, finding Todd, coming across the couple from the restaurant and realizing the woman's basically been holding her fiancé hostage in his house for the past week – but it was all in a very short span of time, and in between devising an extraction plan for Wes from his fucking prison of a house and getting split up on the way back to Lucky Chin's, they just hadn't had time to fully research the fucked up magic coin that started all this in the first place.

They're basically flying blind here, banking on Wes being the Chosen One and his crazy fiancée being way too fucking angry at Dean and a seven year old to realize what they're up to, counting on whatever they're doing being just enough to reverse it all.

So it's not much of a difference from any other case they get, really, the whole flying blind is not exactly new for the Winchesters. But man, is it starting to wear him out. Just once he'd like to have a clean, straightforward hunt. Less with ethical ramifications, more with the shooting and burning.

Just once.

He blinks, realizing he just kind of checked out for a moment there. God, his leg hurts a buttload. If he keeps standing here like a jackass he's going to fall down.

This was not well thought out on his part.

He looks across the yard. Todd's a fast kid, and smart, cutting and jabbing and leading the crazy cheerleader bitch in circles like a pro. She's got height and reach, though, not to mention the same ridiculous super strength; he's been doing well so far but luck never lasts forever, and Dean really doesn't want to have to find out whether super-strength also translates to invincibility.

Fuck. If she hurts Todd he'll fucking _shoot_ her.

Can't let that happen. Change of plans.

Dean stumbles forward, right foot trailing behind him. This is supposed to be his hunt. His fight. And instead, what, he's got fucking preschoolers out there on the front lines, doing his fucking bidding?

No way. No effing way.

This ends here.

He's just a few yards away when Todd trips on something and falls flat on the tall unmowed lawn. Hope doesn't bat an eyelash, just pounces on top of him, but Dean doesn't let her get any further than that and grabs her around the neck, cuffing her in the head with his Walther.

She staggers, giving Todd enough time to scramble out and make a clean getaway. Or at least Dean hopes so, because soon after that the world lurches, and he finds himself blinking at the sky.

There's a high-pitched yell, and then a thud.

Footsteps, coming close. Dean tries to turn over but suddenly he's choking, hanging in the air like a fish on a line.

"I love him," Hope says, eerily placid. He scrabbles at the hand on his neck - she's holding him with just one hand, this is _insane_ - but it makes absolutely no fucking difference. "And I've had just about enough of you."

She squeezes, slowly.

_Just try it, bitch,_ he thinks blearily, and presses the handgun to her stomach.

Her perfect eyebrows rise. The hand slackens a little, as if in surprise. Dean can suddenly breathe a few air molecules more than before.

She doesn't look scared. She's too gone to be scared, Dean knows that. Who the hell knows what kind of person she'd been before this mess - the spell's taken her over completely. She never had a chance.

Just like that transplant kid. Just like Teddy. She just never had a chance.

And that should have been it, really. The moment. That's when Dean should have realized that the game's up, dumbass, nice try, you can't expect every hunt to end without casualties, so get over yourself and stop being a fucking wuss, your vision's crapping out and you don't have time and there are _kids_ at stake here, for God's sake, _Todd and Audrey_ are at stake here. That's when Dean should have put a bullet in her gut.

His hand trembles, and it's not just the lack of air.

…He's never shot anyone before.

No one real.

He hears a whimper. Todd. Has to be.

God, God. He's got to do this.

He's got to.

The Walther's warm in his hand. His finger's on the trigger. She's not invincible. She's not gonna survive a bullet. She's still human. She can still be killed. He can kill her.

They stare at each other. Her eyes are blank with magic, outlined by sooty lashes. His entire world narrows to those eyes. The rest just fades to black.

He can kill her.

But just then the pressure suddenly lets up. Dean falls to the ground. Gags for air.

Loses time.

Slowly he grows aware of something big and dark, blocking out the sun.

"I knew it," the bear sighs at him. "This world's _terrible_."

0000

"Fucking hell, bear," he manages after a minute, hands working his neck – oh, this is not going to be pretty tomorrow. "You cut it real freakin' close."

"Audrey had to put sunscreen on me," the bear says, which is so incredibly dumb that Dean thinks for a moment he must have heard wrong – except on a closer look he can see uneven globs of white all over the black muzzle, and no, it wasn't kidding at all.

"You're shitting me," he says, morbidly disgusted, and lets the stuffed animal haul him to his feet. He wavers in place, lightheaded, finding his balance only at the last second. The smell of sunscreen battles for dominance with the blood flowing from his nose, and let's just say it's not a good combination. "Freaking unreal."

"Sorry."

He shoves the bear away and tries not to think about throwing up. "Just get inside before anybody sees you, you idiot. And – I don't know, hide her in the bushes or something." Anywhere away from the kids. Spell or not, he could really care less about her strangling ass right now.

The bear shrugs its cotton-nylon blend shoulders, and heads for the unconscious woman lying on the ground. "Okay."

He looks at it go, then groans at himself. Goddamn conscience. "And thanks, you know?" he calls out. It turns to look at him. "Seriously. I owe you like a crapton for that."

The bear can't smile, of course, but it nods at him with this odd sort of gravity, and it's almost the same thing.

0000

"Hey."

The pale eyelids flutter open.

He smiles. "Wakey wakey, superhero."

The kid squints at him. "What happened?"

Dean sits back on his heels, lets his smile turn into a grin. "You freaking saved the day, that's what. Definitely saved my sorry hide."

Todd sits up slowly, rubs the back of his head. He smiles a small, proud smile.

"You okay?" Dean asks, searching the tiny pale face for any sign of pain. "Normally I'd already be hauling your heroic butt to the hospital, but you didn't even bruise, and, well, the less questions asked about all this the better."

"It doesn't even hurt," the kid says, and wiggles his toes, his fingers.

"You sure? Because you can cut the heroic crap, kid, it's really important you be honest with me right now. Your mom would kill me if anything happens to you. Heck, I'd kill me if anything happens to you."

"It doesn't!" Todd says. "I swear!"

Dean narrows his eyes, and surveys Todd from head to toe for a moment. "Let me see your head."

Todd rolls his eyes and makes a sour face, but lowers his head for inspection. Dean supposes if he can do all that without excruciating pain or hurling, it's a pretty good sign, but he still checks for checking's sake.

And yeah, the kid's fine, clearheaded, as serious as ever, not a scratch on him.

Which doesn't exactly make a lotta sense, because Wes's fiancee over there is completely out of it due to some teddy bear strongarming. This coin magic goes by no rules Dean can recognize.

...Not that he's one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Score one for the good guys.

He gives Todd a last glance-over, then sighs. "You almost gave me a heart attack, you know that?"

Todd shakes him off and rises to his feet with the agile grace of preschoolers, brushing grass cuttings off his pants. "So? You're old."

…He doesn't even know what to say to that. "Shut up."

The kid grins at him for a second, then sobers all too quickly. He could really stand to smile more.

"So," he says, "is it over?"

"You know what, good question," Dean answers, and flips his phone open. "Let's ask."

0000

Sam picks up on the second ring, sounding out of breath. "_Hey, was just about to call you. Almost there."_

"What's the holdup? You won't believe what I've had to go through."

"_Yeah well, believe me, hasn't exactly been easy on this end either."_

He rolls his eyes at Todd. "How, exactly, how was it not easy as pie for you? I'm the one who had to get chased by Wes's Crazy Love – who, by the way, totally wished for super-strength sometime when we weren't looking, so if you thought about laughing you can think the fuck again."

"_And I had to deal with freak mini-thunderstorms, running over invisible kids and a fucking pony on a rampage, so I really think you could cut me some slack."_

"Shit, man," he says, after a moment. "The pony again?"

"_Yeah._" Sam clears his throat, and thankfully changes the subject. "_Anyway, so, we're here. Wes is taking the coin out of the fountain and then we'll come get you. Where are you, anyway?_"

"The teddy bear house."

A beat.

"_Teddy bear house._"

"Don't ask questions, Sam."

"_You're making it pretty difficult."_

"Yeah, yeah, I'll catch you up later. See you," he says, and hangs up. He glances at Todd, who looks back at him questioningly.

"So? Did it work?"

Dean contemplates him for a long minute, then pokes his shoulder.

Todd frowns.

Dean pokes him again.

"Hey, cut it out!" Todd says, frowning harder as he shrugs him off.

Dean ignores him.

"Stop it!" Todd grabs his hand.

He raises his eyebrows. Then, with a small movement, breaks the grip easily.

It doesn't even hurt.

Todd stares at his palms.

"Kid," Dean says, smiling, "everything is officially back to normal."

0000

Audrey's fine, not even shaken. Her Teddy's back to being just a regular, inanimate stuffed animal.

...Dean tries not to think about it.

0000

They give the kids a ride back to Todd's house even though it's really only a couple streets over. It's the least they can do, after all - it's not like Dean has any most-helpful-civilians-yet medals on hand.

They're still not all that sure of what exactly taking back the wishes means, whether it just fixes the surface stuff or makes it like nothing ever happened, but Dean's relatively sure Audrey's parents will come back any time now, so he's not too worried. Still, for now, she shouldn't stay in that house alone, since God only knows how long it takes to fly here from Bali, so that means either a sleepover at Todd's or going back to the neighbors.

She takes it pretty well, doesn't even seem all that distraught as she nods at him gravely, clutching her normal-sized teddy to her chest.

…Dean still can't stand to look at the thing for too long.

"Hey, one last thing," he tells them, just before they go inside. "Take this."

The kids look at him. Todd hesitantly reaches out for the card and turns it over, mouthing the words silently as he reads.

Dean crouches to his level. "Anything else weird happens, you can call me or Sam on this number, okay?" he says, and looks at Audrey. "That goes for you too, princess. You need us, we're there. You guys are officially part of the club."

She smiles.

Todd nods, then says, glancing at the Impala, "So that's Sammy?"

"Yup," he says. "Tall, dark and broody, right?"

"Yeah." Todd visibly hesitates, then ventures, "He's kind of scary."

It takes him aback for a second, because Sam's really not scary at all, but honestly Dean can't blame the kid. Much as Sam tried to hide it for the children's sake, he was _not_ happy after whatever he went through, as is apparent from the way he leans back on the car, arms crossed and expression stormy, clothes completely soaked through.

Scowly strikes yet again.

"He is monstrously huge," he agrees, grinning because it's sorta funny when you think about it. Dude is pretty much asking for another stray thundercloud to rain on him. "You get used to it, though. Trust me, he's like a big overly sensitive puppy once you get to know him."

"If you say so." Todd looks back at him. "Are you gonna tell him? About your name?"

"Uh." It catches him by surprise. "Um. Well. Not sure yet."

"Maybe you should." He looks serious. Then again, though, he always does - Dean can imagine the kid scowling the same thoughtful scowl someday when he grows up and gets a prize for doing something amazing, far beyond Dean's comprehension.

This kid's going places. Anyone with eyes can see that.

Dean clears his throat. "I'll think about it," he promises. "But anyway, time to say adios, kids." He ruffles Todd's hair and fistbumps Audrey, who giggles. "You two superheroes stay out of trouble, okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay." Todd grabs Audrey by the hand and pulls her behind him as he starts for the house. "Bye, Dean. Let's go, Audrey."

"Bye Dean!" she calls out over her shoulder, running to keep up.

He grins, and doesn't miss them already.

Not even a little.

"Bye," he says, and that's that.

0000

At least he waited until the kids are gone. And at least the ride was short, because otherwise Dean might have throttled him.

"But why my entire collection? These are vintage coins and stamps, do you know how much they'll go for on eBay?"

Dean and Sam roll their eyes at each other wearily. This has been an ongoing cycle of whining for the past ten minutes.

"Buddy, I'm tired, I'm in pain, and for the last time, if you honestly think after everything that's happened that we're going to take any chances here, you seriously got another think coming." Dean falls back on the couch, and his leg thanks him.

"But you don't understand, these are early eighteen-"

"Look," Sam tells Wes, calmly, "I'm sure there's nothing for us to worry about anymore, but if you don't show us everything you got right now, so help me God I will _shoot _you."

Wes vanishes into his room. Dean stares.

Sam runs a hand down his face. His hair's still dripping onto his forehead. "It's been a really long day," he mutters at Dean.

"No kidding," Dean says, awed.

"Here." Wes drops a shitload of albums on the table. "This is everything, happy?"

Rude. And this from the guy who practically begged them to rescue him this morning.

"You know," Dean tells Sam, "he sure doesn't sound like someone who's learned his lesson."

"Lesson?" Wes says, and oh, God, here he goes on another spiel. Dean really needs to learn when not to open his mouth. "What lesson, exactly? How I can never be happy? How everything I do goes wrong?"

"'Can't buy me love'?" Dean suggests wearily.

Wes snorts. "Yeah, right. Just look at you two chuckleheads."

Sam scowls, and shit, Todd was right – it is mildly terrifying. "Do we look rich to you?"

"Not like that, you idiot." He rolls his eyes, apparently lacking any self preservation instinct whatsoever. "I mean, look at you two! You, with the - shampoo commercial hair! And you!" Wes says, pointing at Dean. "You, you're just – _pretty_! How are guys like me supposed to compete with that?"

Are they really having this conversation? "Hey," Dean says, annoyed, "I didn't choose this freaking face, okay? Leave off."

Sam glances at him oddly. Dean chooses to ignore him.

The guy goes on obliviously, "You don't even diet, do you. You can probably eat a box of donuts without gaining a pound -"

It's a weird transition, maybe, but for a brief instant Dean wonders what it'd be like, a normal life with diets and garlic mashers and cleanses and all that other stuff they show on late night TV. A life with cubicles. Cell phone plans. Staplers.

He'd probably even have to wear vests unironically.

"-And you can't even begin to understand that, okay? You have no idea what it's like! So don't you fucking tell me to move on - how am I supposed to move on, when guys like you are all girls like Hope ever see?"

Oh. Oh wow.

Just.

Wow.

"First off, _buddy_," he says, "if you got the hots for a girl from high school who has no idea who you are and, by the way, is probably a bitch, that is your own _fucking_ problem."

Wes opens his mouth at that, but Dean grabs him by the shirt and kind of just smiles down at him, because, well, he just kinda feels like smiling. And you know, it's funny, but suddenly the guy seems very interested in shutting up.

Which suits Dean just fine.

"Second," Dean continues, still smiling down at the asshole, "you might get some points for wanting to take back the wish without us putting a gun to your head, okay, but you know, when I think about it, you kind of technically raped some poor woman and stole two months off her _life."_

Wesley whitens.

"I mean, not like any court will take you, 'magic made me do it' isn't exactly a stellar defense nowadays, so hey, looks like you're getting off scott-free. But as far as I'm fucking concerned? You can get the fuck off your fugly high horse and shove it up your ass, Wes, because you know what, I might be a handsome son of a gun, but when a girl tells me no I fucking _listen_."

He lets go of Wes and picks up the coin collection - the entire freaking stack.

"And that's all without going into everything else your magical wishing well's responsible for. What can I say, man, you fucked up big time. But all that's on you. Me, I'm taking this," he says, "and you bet your ass I'm melting down every mothereffing nickel."

Dean catches Sam's shocked gaze and jerks his head at the door.

"Let's go, Sam."

Sam follows him out, all the while staring like he's never seen Dean before.

And they go.

0000

He doesn't even care that his leg hurts, or that the seat's still wet from Sam's weather shenanigans. Dean drives.

0000

There hadn't been time before to properly fill each other in on what happened, so they take the time to do just that. Sam tells him about the thundercloud and the invisible boy, pointedly refuses to mention the pony again. Dean tells him about Teddy and Todd and Audrey, and how they brought down a superpowered villain. It's kind of a lame story, in retrospect, but whatever. Another day, another blow to Dean's dignity. He's used to it.

After a while Dean notices that the silence is less the comfortable camaraderie kind, and more the suspicious someone-is-up-to-something kind. He sneaks a glance at the guy riding shotgun.

And really, there should be some kind of legislation against Sam's eyebrows.

"What," he says flatly.

Sam instantly makes an innocent face. "What?" he says, as though Dean can't tell now when he's secretly cracking up inside. "I didn't say anything."

He should have known the blessed silence was too good to last. "You were thinking it."

"Me? No, no."

Convincing. "Uh huh. Come on, let's go, I've been waiting for this."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Still with the innocent act. He irritably turns at the intersection for their motel. "What is it, Dean mom jokes? Or maybe how I could be a hit on Sesame Street?"

Sam shakes his head, pressing his lips together as if to stop from smiling. "No, not that."

"Then what?" he says. "Go on, let's have it."

"It's just…" Sam's mouth quivers at the corners. "I was just thinking. If hustling's ever not an option."

"Yeah?"

"You could always try babysitting."

Dean's speechless.

Sam loses it.

"I hate you," Dean informs him. "I hate you, and I hate kids, but I especially hate you."

"Love you too," Sam says, tears in his eyes, just as his phone rings. The large forehead crinkles, and when he answers with a puzzled _hello?_ a distinctly feminine voice replies.

Dean's fingers tighten reflexively on the wheel.

Sam glances at him, then says, "Sure. Sure. Yeah. That works." And promptly hangs up.

He carefully keeps his face blank. "Ruby," he says. It isn't a question.

"Yeah," Sam says anyway, awkwardly. "Listen, are you - you're okay, right? Nothing serious?"

Dean holds in a sigh, and turns around as he parks in reverse. "If you're asking whether you can leave me by myself without feeling guilty, Sam, the answer is yes, you condescending doucheschnozzle, I think I will survive your absence."

Hazel eyes look him over worriedly. "You sure? Because I -"

"Go on your demonic playdate, Sam," he says, tiredly. He puts on the the parking brake and opens the door, thoughtfully leaving the keys in the ignition. "Don't worry about me, I'll melt the ancient coin of doom all by me lonesome."

"What about the rest of them?"

He wrinkles his forehead. "Are you kidding me? Do you know how much all that could go for on eBay?"

Sam chuckles. He scoots over to the driver's seat, looks up at Dean through the window. "Dean, I don't really-"

And that's enough of that. "Shut up, it's fine. Planned on turning in early anyway."

Sam looks conflicted.

"...Okay," he finally says, hesitantly. "Sleep well?"

"Yeah," Dean replies, as Sam pulls away, and adds under his breath, a little too sarcastically to be polite, "you too."

He tosses the coin in the air, grabs it deftly.

He's got work to do. Things to consider.

Yeah. Better get on that.

* * *

He tenses at the flutter of wings.

His throat constricts, but Dean swallows it down, stares blankly into the horizon. Cas is all right, him being here is one thing, but somehow it doesn't really feel like –

"Nice lake," Zachariah says.

* * *

_A/N: and that's that for Wishful Thinking. At least, for now. :) Let me know what you think!_

_I did have fun writing this. Can you tell I liked these kids? And Teddy. Oh Teddy. Poor heroic Teddy._

_(And okay, I guess I lied? That was probably some serious Wes bashing. Oops. Hope you guys don't mind.)_

_More plot next chapter! _


	24. if I must fall

_A/N: That was quick. *Too* quick._

_...Yeah, I don't know. Told you the next one was almost ready. Happy update?_

* * *

His knuckles whiten over the fishing pole.

Fuck. Fuck, this means – if he's here then this means – no. _No_, he isn't ready –

"So it's time," he says.

The angel sits next to him. He tangles his hands together, twiddles his thumbs. "Not quite," he says, pretty perky for a harbinger of doom, but then again, perky asshole seems to be Zachariah's default setting. "I won't lie to you though, it's soon."

He tosses out the line and viciously wishes Cas were here. "Which means what, exactly? We talkin' months? A year?"

A pitying gaze falls on the general vicinity of his face, but Dean is an expert avoider and so avoids it expertly. "A year? No no no, Dean, let's not go crazy here. I'd say, uh," the angel shoots a bemused look down at his Rolex, "two, three months, at most? Depending on how everything plays out, of course."

All the air in his lungs leaves him in a rush. It's not a surprise, exactly – or at least it shouldn't come as a surprise – but to hear it finally said out loud, well, it's just… too much. It's way too much.

He hasn't had nearly enough time.

"And that's – that's it?" he asks tightly. "That's all I get?"

"I'm afraid so." Zachariah looks vaguely solemn. "Sorry, kid. That's the way the cookie crumbles."

He's really, really not in the mood for Jim Carrie quotes. "Are you – are you sure? I mean, it's – isn't it too soon, I haven't exactly done –"

"You've done precisely what you were supposed to. Just look at that last hunt. Passed that with flying colors." The angel grabs a bag of Cheetos out of nowhere and starts munching. He offers Dean some, and when Dean refuses he sighs. "Relax, will you? You got your big break. We're back on schedule."

"And what happens to Sam?" he wants to know. "Will he be okay?"

Zachariah shrugs at him, which isn't all that reassuring actually. "Sam has his own role to play."

"That's not an answer."

"And that's also not your concern. You've done your part, Dean. In a couple of months, whatever happens to Sam will be entirely up to him."

"And you." He doesn't know why he's being difficult – it can't help any – but he says it anyway.

To be fair, it's also the truth.

"And me," the angel concedes. "Somewhat."

He has to snort at that. "Somewhat? This whole mess was your overly complicated plan, Zach."

Zachariah quirks his eyebrows, but lets the nickname go. "Just following my orders from up on high." He tosses a handful of bright orange into his mouth and says as he swallows, "So I get a little creative in the execution, sue me."

"Creative."

"Hey," the angel reminds him, pointing at his chest, "you should be grateful to me, you know, my little overly complicated plan got your punk ass out of hell."

He tosses a pebble off the dock. "I'm won't get to see it, am I?" he says lowly. "How it all turns out. You'll pull me before it's even over."

Zachariah raises an eyebrow. "Like I said, not your concern. There are things Sam has to do on his own."

"Yeah, I get that, but I could still, I don't know, stay and help somehow –"

A calculating look. Then, gently, "You're not actually Dean Winchester, kiddo. Leave the grand destiny to those unfortunate enough to have it."

Dean draws in a breath of air, lets it out in a puff.

It was a long shot, anyway.

"Right, well," he says, and smirks because there's nothing else to do, is there. "Guess I always knew it couldn't last."

"You know what they say," Zachariah tells him, "only the good die young, and you, my amnesiac plaid-wearing friend, had a pretty okay run." The angel grins as he stretches his legs and stands. "How many people have you saved?"

He frowns at the water. "Dunno. Didn't count." Doesn't feel like all that many, somehow.

Not nearly enough to make up for anything.

"I think it's quite plenty, don't you?"

His head snaps up.

Zachariah's mouth grows wider, sharper, and he chuckles, clearly pleased with himself. His grins still never reach his eyes, but Dean's getting used to that – he's starting to think genuine emotion must be some kind of angel defect limited to Cas. "A deal's a deal, Dean-o. I keep my promises."

He scrambles to his feet. "It's – it's enough?" he breathes. It can't be, there's no way –

"Eh, enough, what's enough, really? Almost, more like," Cas's boss says, eyes glinting in the vague yellow light. "You're not quite finished yet. But never mind that right now – as far as I'm concerned, Dean, you've earned yourself your own little corner of heaven."

It's – it's ridiculous. There's no way, he hasn't been here nearly long enough -

Dean exhales. His fingers tremble minutely; he laces them behind his head, turns to face the big blue lake of his dreams. "I – God." He brings one hand to his forehead, leaves it there. He tries to smile but can't, this is – this is too big. Heaven. Him. Holy freaking shit. "That's great. That's – that's _great_."

Zachariah watches him with a smile. "Just keep at it," he says, amicably bumping against Dean's shoulder, "and you'll get exactly what you want."

He still can't believe it. "I will." Shit, this is real. "I will."

He grins down at the water.

"Definitely."

* * *

Sam's still asleep when he wakes up – which is fine, four am after all, it's not a totally whack concept – so he makes sure to be quiet getting out of bed, even if it is a somewhat awkward and ungraceful process, what with the left side of his body being stiff as fuck. His neck still hurts like the dickens, but what the hell, fuck it. He hums under his breath as he gets his laptop open, and starts to look for a hunt.

Not just any old hunt though. The real deal. Something cool, that'll get Sam's attention. That'll have them save a bunch more people.

Something nice and important and distracting.

Sam turns over in his sleep. Dean glances at him, shrugs, and keeps on humming.

Life's good.

Or, well. You know.

Yeah.

0000

It's like a never-ending soap with this kid. Dean breaks off right at the good part and sighs, taking off his ear buds.

So much for a study break.

"What's up this time, Scowly?" he says, and sits up with a hiss – his leg's still on extended suicide watch. Fucking heroic injuries, TV never tells you how they shackle you to bed.

Sam doesn't even look offended, which is how Dean knows it's serious. He's currently – well actually, Dean has no idea what Sam's currently doing, aside from tinkering on his laptop, screen facing well away from Dean.

Porn, probably.

"You're…" Sam's mouth twists, as if he's speaking some foreign language. "You're _singing_."

Dean rolls his eyes. Leave it to Sam to make the simplest thing sound like slingshotting Jupiter. "Well, I was trying to, but then you creeped me out."

Sam doesn't look sorry. Actually he looks more like… baffled. "But you're – you were on key."

"Um, yeah, all awesome singers are."

"But you're. You're." Maybe Sam's having a stroke. "You never – _but_ _you can't sing._"

He shrugs. "Sorry?"

"No," Sam says quickly, and pretty confusingly. "I mean. Uh. You're – you're good." He looks back down at his laptop and starts muttering. Dean can only hear bits and pieces.

_"Can't believe – all these years – could freaking sing all these years_ –"

Okay, Dean thinks he knows what this is. "Are you fangirling?" he asks. "Because tell you what, if you call up a pizza I'll totally sign your heaving bosom." His mouth twitches into a smirk. "Did you hear that? I said bosom."

There, the infamous nose wrinkle. Back to your places, everyone, Sam Winchester's back with us. "Dude."

"What? I'm not signing your white boy butt, forget it."

Sam looks thoroughly disturbed, which is as usual thoroughly entertaining. "Seriously, I don't even want to know how your mind works."

"Hey, you interrupt during my jam, there are consequences."

"You stole my iPod."

"Our iPod." He puts the earbuds back on, and says, flopping back on the mattress, "By the way, totally serious about that pizza."

"Why don't you sing for it," Sam mutters grouchily.

"If that's what you want, honeybun," he grins, and proceeds to belt out a truly blasphemous rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody. Sam groans ten seconds in and dramatically throws himself on his bed, pillow clutched over his head. Dean just sings louder in response.

It's a good day.

0000

"Another hunt."

He nods, mouth full, nose only vaguely throbbing anymore, though he can't say as much for his leg. They're eating lunch at this fancy schmancy corner bistro place, having finally crawled outside in order to reward themselves for a job well done – and as far as Dean is concerned, they can keep on rewarding themselves for another week. This is one awesome fancy sandwich.

Sam picks at his not-nearly-as-awesome fancy salad, because that's how Sam usually eats, without any palpable joy. "What is it?" he says. He doesn't sound especially enthusiastic.

His gaze keeps straying to Dean's neck, where a nice purple bruise lies hidden under a black turtleneck. Until this morning, Dean hadn't even known they had a black turtleneck, and it's somewhat disturbing to think they keep clothes on hand specifically for after-strangulation purposes. Frankly he could have done without that bit of knowledge. He honestly doesn't know what's worse – feeling like a battered housewife or looking like someone who might willingly listen to My Chemical Romance.

At least Bobby and Todd can't see this. It's one of the few advantages of the nomadic lifestyle - no one you know is around to witness your objectionable fashion choices.

He makes a noise deep in his throat to convey _ahem dude my eyes are up here_, and Sam guiltily raises his head.

Really, Sammy, how inappropriate. Dean's so appalled.

He leans forward, grins. "Get this, okay, eight murders in the same twenty-block radius in southern Oklahoma."

"Uh huh." Sam looks incredibly unimpressed, but maybe it's because he's eating a salad. Hard to be impressed when eating a salad. Dean's glad he ordered him that side of French fries.

(Still holding out hope for dessert. For once he wants to order something he can't pronounce.)

His grin widens as he delivers the winning shot. "Each on a full moon."

_Bam. _The fork freezes on the halfway point to Sam's mouth.

"Get it?" Dean says, not really waiting for a reaction. "Get it? Has to be a werewolf, right? Right?"

The other hunter clears his throat, starts to frown. "I don't – I mean, it could be…wait a minute, that must have been a lot of work to put together, when did you –"

He rolls his eyes. "Hello, hunter? I'm not totally useless?"

"Uh huh. Yeah. Sure."

"Oh, shut up."

Sam's grin flashes for an instant, and then his eyebrows bunch together. "Seriously though, it's only been two days –"

"Blah blah blah, Sam," he interrupts, rolling his eyes again, waving his sandwich dismissively. "I couldn't really sleep, put my awesome huntering research skills to the test, and voila, werewolf. Yes, I'm a master, feel free to pay for dinner - can we get to the important part which is when can we go silverbulleting this mother?"

Sam swallows a leaf and frowns. Dean would also frown in that situation. "I thought the important part was going after Lilith."

He tears a bite off his sandwich. "Funny, I thought the important part was saving people," he points out archly, chewing.

And then all of a sudden funny bantering time is over. "We're talking about stopping the apocalypse, Dean. That _is _saving people."

He swallows, clears his throat. "Uh. I know. Just, well. Not much we can do now, right?"

In an instant Sam's all business, forehead wrinkled with intense concentration. "What the hell does that mean?"

Dean avoids Sam's narrowed eyes. "Had a dream. Talked to Zachariah."

"Zachariah?"

"Angel. Castiel's boss." Sam raises an eyebrow as if to say _okay, and...? _"And, long story short… don't call us, we'll call you."

Flatly. "What."

He scratches his shoulder, and then the back of his head. "From what I understand, they have the seals taken care of. Being divine assholes and all, seems they don't really need help from us lowly mortals, so we're more like... the trump cards for the grand finale? Whatever that means."

Sam's like a millimeter away from passing for Korean. "So now they're factoring us both in. Suddenly."

Oops. "Uh. Yeah," he says, thinking quickly. "Told him we were a package deal, he pretty much just went along with it."

"Okay, let me get this straight," Sam says. "They told us the apocalypse was coming. They told us about the seals. And now they want us to sit on the sidelines."

This was a poorly planned conversation. "Look, Sam," Dean sighs. "I'll be honest with you here. There are, literally, hundreds of seals, so the apocalypse happening is pretty much just a matter of time. And no offense, but we kind of fucked it up with the seal back in Halloween Town. I don't really blame them not wanting to take another chance on us."

"Oh, sure, 'cause that makes so much sense," Sam says, with so much unnecessary sarcasm. "It's not like they could have given us more information or, you know, actually physically helped us."

"Uh, they kind of saved our skins," he points out.

"Did they?" Sam returns, not smiling. "And tell me, Dean, if there are in fact so many seals, why only start breaking them now? What's so special about the twenty-first century that Lilith waited so long to spring Lucifer outta hell?"

Dean blinks, caught by surprise. "Uh." _Righteous man, blood in hell, you should really look that one up. _"Nothing, probably?"

Yeah, like he really wants to go into how Sam's big brother snapped under torture and turned evil. That'll just go over so well.

Sam squints at him. "…You know something."

He raises an eyebrow nonchalantly. Fuck Sam's brain, seriously. "Oh Captain my Captain, shall I list thee all the ways in which you're paranoid?"

Something stony passes over Sam's face. He puts his fork down and doesn't even smile at the way Dean's managed to butcher old-as-dirt literature. "Right. Paranoid."

He rolls his eyes, and in the process wonders when he became a lying liar too. Fuck Zachariah for making him into an ass.

"Okay," he admits, because this much he can give Sam, at least, "maybe not paranoid. Still not gonna tell you, though." Sam opens his mouth, eyes widening, but Dean quickly interrupts him, "Look, trust me on this, okay? This isn't something you need to know."

"Dean –"

"I'm serious." He drops his gaze. "There's a reason, but it - it doesn't matter anymore. Just… take my word for it."

Silence. Dean shoves more food into his mouth.

Finally, "Okay."

He cheers up. "Besides, when you think about it," he says, trying to make Sam feel better, "it really doesn't change any of it, does it? I mean, kind of a moot point by now, you know, Armageddon's happening, not much we can do about that."

"Yeah." Bitterness. "Not much we can do about anything, is there."

"Don't be like that, Sam, I got us a nice relaxing hunt of coolness all lined up here, ready for some kickass Winchesters to come in and kick ass." He waits, then says, "C'mon, man, can you be maybe a little less gloom and doom? I found us a werewolf here, Sam. _Werewolf. _You could at least be happy for me."

Not even a smile. "Right. Congratulations."

Crap, this feels so incredibly shitty. Dean really wishes he could tell Sam about his glorious apoco-stopping destiny, all the things he's gonna do without Dean around.

But ol' Zach was pretty clear on that point.

He sighs. "Listen, I'm sorry," he says, mumbling it a little as if maybe that way it won't count for so much. Sam glances at him. "I don't mean to be all cavalier about this end of the world crap, okay, it's just… there's no point worrying when it's out of our hands, you know? Besides. Things will turn out okay."

Sam doesn't seem nearly so sure. "And you know that because…?"

Dean shrugs. "Evil never wins." He smirks charmingly, and steals some of Sam's French fries. "We won't let it."

Sam looks at him for a long moment, something glinting in his eyes that Dean can't read, and then he nods, decisively, like a strange invisible weight suddenly toppled over his head.

"Yeah," he says, far too grimly for comfort. "Of course not."

Dean frowns at him, suspicious and uneasy, though he can't exactly pinpoint why. Sam just looks blankly back at him, a gigantic, hairy pinnacle of innocence.

…Eh, whatever. He's got a sandwich to finish.

* * *

_A/N: Hopefully everything - or most things - are pretty clear. If you're still wondering: yes, Dean did think he was going back to hell for the past six(?) or so chapters, and yes, he did follow Zach's orders, whatever those might have been (you guys should have some idea). Whether or not that truly makes him an ass for lying to Sam, well, you decide. I'm being as unbiased as I can while keeping to one character's point of view - which might be an oxymoron, now that I think about it, but oh well. I guess it's safe to tell you that as always, there's quite a lot Dean doesn't see or know, and it probably helps to keep that in mind._

___(Also, yes, Dean did in fact troll Sam his entire life pretending to not be able to sing worth crap. That is my headcanon, and goshdarnit, I'm sticking to it.)_

_Things are going to get a bit darker from here on out. Stay with me folks, it might get bumpy._


	25. let me fall

_A/N: Glad no one cares about the cursing, because this chapter kind of breaks my record for it._

* * *

He jerks awake.

"Morning," Sam says from across the room. Dean can hear him wander around, things clanking, the coffee already bubbling in the percolator.

He stares up at the ceiling. Swallows, forces himself to relax. "Mornin'," he says back. The pleasantries stick in his throat.

Movement. Busy sounds. "I'm really liking this coffeemaker," Sam says, cheerfully. "We don't usually get those."

The ceiling is yellowed and cracking, the corners lined with small dark spots he can only hope aren't mold. He lets his eyes follow the cracks. "Yeah?" he says.

"Yeah. Hey, maybe we should buy one. That way we don't have to rely on crappy gas stations so much."

"Sounds," Dean clears his throat. "Sounds kinda awkward to lug around."

"There are small ones, you know. Portable. Like a moka machine, it's the size of a kettle and all you need is a hot plate or a stove and voila, espresso." A hissing noise, then a pop. A lid being opened. "Want some? Should be good."

The smell alone is enough to make him queasy. He glosses over a wince. "No – no thanks, I'm fine."

"You don't want coffee?" Sam sounds surprised. "You always want coffee."

"Yeah, well." He closes his eyes, opens them again immediately. "It's all yours."

Footsteps. Sam's floppy wet hair enters his vision. "What's wrong?"

He turns his head the other way. "Nothing," he murmurs into the pillow.

"Like hell it is." Of course Sam wouldn't let that go, kid's probably never let anything go in his life. "Feeling all right? You're pretty pale."

"I'm fine – " he says, just as a large warm hand turns him back around and paws at his forehead. He swipes it away. "Damn it, Sam, I said I'm fine!"

Sam slowly withdraws his hand, joviality gone. "Did… something happen?"

"No," he hisses, then catches himself being an ass for no good reason and sighs. He sits up, runs a hand down his face. "Sorry, I guess I'm…" he swallows, tries again. "Guess I'm not at a hundred percent." He puts on a smile, feels it splinter, drops it. "Forget it."

The tall hunter frowns, looking vaguely troubled and freshly showered. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing, just…" he hesitates, then shrugs. "Dunno. Must be flu season." He clears his throat, barely able to stomach his own bullshit. "How come you're up so early? When'd you get in last night?"

Sam moves away to pour himself coffee. It must be a pretty important part of the process, because his eyes don't stray from it for even a second. "Pretty late."

"Uh huh." Well, he has better things to do than wonder about Sam's night life – not to mention, if Ruby's involved, the less said the better. Sam's meandering explanations for how he meets up with Ruby for 'recreational purposes only' are not the mental images Dean needs.

_Something coagulating – a razor-sharp grin – you'd think he'd get used to it all after a while, but that's the thing, you can't, no one can –_

"Hey," he says suddenly, "I didn't, uh… wake you up, or anything, did I?"

Sam shoots him a puzzled look. "No," he replies, but then his eyes widen and he abruptly turns in Dean's direction. "Why, are you – did you dream something?"

"Nah," he says, and it's not even a lie. "Just wondering." He clears his throat. "Seems like it's been a while, right? Must be getting better."

"Yeah?" Sam almost sounds wistful. "I hope so." He takes a sip from his cup, smiles to himself.

"Want me to leave you two alone?"

"I'm telling you, Dean, moka machines. That's the future."

It's a rare mood that Sam's in, so Dean says, "You know what, if you stick to normal coffee and don't get any of that Starbucks syrupy crap, I'll buy your weird little coffeemaker myself."

Sam actually grins. "Sweet."

He tries to return it. "Anything for you, honeybun."

It's pretty weak, but Sam still rolls his eyes and scrunches up his nose, which is actually a bit of a feat to do at the same time but then, Sam's a master.

He clears his throat. "So, uh. We any closer to finding our werewolf?" It's been more than a week, Dean's pretty sure they're supposed to be done with this hunt by now.

And even though that would mean having to look for another hunt for Sam-distraction purposes, Dean can't help but hope for it. Something is making him stupidly antsy, like an itch in his back he can't pinpoint, or like something hanging over his head.

An arched eyebrow. "Uh, no, Dean, I didn't exactly make any headway in my sleep." Pause. "...You sure you're okay? You look kinda crappy."

"Great," he mutters, squeezing the bridge of his nose. "I'm great. Let's get on with it then, shall we."

"If you want to go back to bed, I won't –"

"No," Dean says, and hops off the bed. "I'm fine, see, I'm fine. Look how motherfucking fine I am and be motherfucking jealous. Let's go."

Sam looks at Dean oddly, his forehead wrinkling as though Dean's some kind of anomaly to write up in his leather-bound journal.

It pisses him off. "I said _let's go_."

"Okay, okay, no need to be a jerk about it," Sam says, sipping at his coffee like the goddamn Queen of England. "Uh, Dean?"

"What."

Sam gestures to his legs. "You might want to put on some pants."

0000

Hunting werewolves sucks.

"Fuck fuck fuck fucking fucking fuck –"

"Hold still," Sam mumbles around the needle in his mouth. He unties the strip of shirt around Dean's arm, tries to roll up the sleeve but it's stuck.

"You better sterilize that," he gasps, trying not to look, "or so help me I will – _fuck _– I will shove it up your humongous nose, I swear it, I will shove it up there and your olfacto-bulb will die and you'll never smell lettuce ever again –"

"I think you mean olfactory bulb, and where did you even hear about that?" Sam says. He shakes his head and clucks like a sixties housewife. "There goes another shirt," he mutters under his breath, and gets out a Big Damn Knife as he kneels in front of Dean. "Relax, dude, you'll be fine."

"Easy for you to say," he snaps, eyes glued to what is practically a machete. "You didn't get clawed up by a menstruating monster." Who was also a forty year old interior designer and mother of two, but he'd really rather not think about that.

Wendigos. Wendigos are clear cut and not fucking tragic.

Oh fuck, fuck, he doesn't want that thing anywhere near him – nothing that sharp - _not again –_

"You know," Sam says, carefully ripping Dean's shirt off – all the blood's making it stick to his skin rather nicely, if by nicely you meant agonizingly well, "You used to be a lot more stoic about this kind of stuff."

"Fuck stoic," he grits out, "you can share my pain, Sam, I'm all about the sharing and – _Goddamn it fuck you, Sam, watch it!_"

Sam doesn't snigger, because Sam never sniggers inappropriately, and surely not when his brother's bleeding over his head.

"Fuck fuck _fuck_," Dean swears, blinking rapidly. He's not crying, he is _not _fucking crying. He is a goddamn _man_.

"Almost done with this part, man. Promise."

His shirt's finally off. He sweats, feels like he's freezing.

Sam's hands halt, for a moment, and then they grab his arm carefully, keeping it secure. "Gonna sting," he warns.

Dean glares at him blurrily. "Please, sting, like it doesn't already fucking – _UGH_!"

"Hold still, okay? I got you, I got you."

"Fuck – _fuck, _Sam, holy shitting _fuck_ –"

"Shh, Dean, you're fine. Worst part's over, I swear, stitches are a joke compared to that."

"Real- really?"

"Yeah, take it from someone who knows." He doesn't even look like he's lying. Sam's effing good at this. Should be a doctor, or like, some other kind of professional liar. "Here, drink some, it'll help."

Dean takes the bottle with a shaking hand, tosses it back. The whisky burns his throat.

He pretends it helps.

_Blood, down his face – something like black, it blisters –_

"So hey, Dean," Sam says conversationally, bringing Dean back to earth and the small motel room that might as well be hell. Subject change, subject change could be good, he'd love to think about anything but what is happening right fucking now – "That thing you got on your shoulder."

He tries not to scream. "_Mm?_"

"The… the hand." He glances up, then back at his work. "Where'd you… where'd you get it?"

What kind of subject change is that? "Cas – Castiel," he says, swallowing and staring at the ceiling, trying to focus on talking and breathing and not on the holes being poked through his skin. "From when – when he – got me out –"

Pain, thread, tie. Pain, thread, tie. God, to think that Sam did this to _himself_ –

Sam's gaze is focused carefully on Dean's arm, and nothing else but Dean's arm. "Does it hurt?" he asks, sounding nothing more than politely curious, but who knows with Sam and who the fuck cares. "The… handprint?"

He exhales through his mouth. Easy, easy, he tells himself. It's not so bad. It's really not so bad. "Itches sometimes."

Sam nods. "So that's why you always – geeze, Dean, careful with that, you gotta keep still –"

"_Just get it fucking over with you fucking –_"

"There." Sam ties the last stitch, snips the thread a quarter-inch away from the knot . "Done."

"_Oh God_," Dean says. "Let's not ever fucking do that again."

"C'mon," Sam says, and helps Dean up from the chair. "Let's get you to bed."

"Shut up," he mutters, and his head droops down to his chest. "You're not my mom."

A sigh. Sam hitches him up a bit, pulls Dean's arm over his wide shoulders. Dean would like to think he's standing on his own, but he has the weird sense Sam deserves a lot more credit for him being vertical than his own mothereffing legs do.

"Don't even know my mom," he says at the ground. Hello ground. "Dead like everyone else."

"I know, Dean," Sam says, steadying Dean with an arm around the small of his back. Dean suspects the only reason he's not hauling Dean off his feet is to allow him some semblance of dignity.

"Exploded on the ceiling," he mumbles, "how screwed up is that. Fucking family history you got there, Sam, no wonder you're fucked up. Not even your fault."

Sam says nothing. Between them and the bed is about an eternity of carpet. Dean thinks if he falls flat on his face, right now, he might make it halfway. And if he was tall like Sam he probably could have reached it.

Fucking Sam.

He stumbles - not sure how, exactly, it's not like his legs are really moving here. Sam curses under his breath and pauses to balance them both. Dean can't even pretend he's helping any here anymore.

Not that he ever did.

They shuffle forward awkwardly, passing the table and the coffee machine.

The mothereffing coffee machine. "Fuck you," he slurs at it. "Fuck you, Sam, and fuck your car, and fuck your fucking puppy eyes. I coulda been normal, Sam."

"I know," Sam says. "I know."

They reach the bed. Sam lets him down gently, scary gently, his big giant arms arranging the blankets around Dean. His head falls onto a pillow, throbbing with a deep sort of ache he thinks he might like to drown in.

"...I hate werewolves," he mumbles into it.

"Yeah, me too," Sam says. "Go to sleep, Dean."

He falls asleep.

0000

Sam steers them to easy hunts after that. Ghosts, hauntings. Kid stuff. Research, dig, burn. Research, dig, burn. Pretty familiar.

This time Dean doesn't really mind, though, even if it's not exactly what he's supposed to be doing - but fuck Zach, he could use a break. It's fine.

Except for, you know, how Sam keeps running off for some demon nookie and leaves Dean all by himself, but you can't have everything, can you.

"I just don't get it," he says. "Human girls don't cut it for you anymore, is that it? Or is this some adrenaline thing, you get a hard-on for the whole might-stab-you-at-any-minute crap?"

Sam makes a face and pulls on a gray shirt. If Dean never sees another V-neck in his life he could die happy, he thinks. "I know she's… difficult, but she's done a lot for me. Got me out of some pretty heavy shit."

"Good for her. It's still creepy." He stares at the ceiling. There's literally nothing else to do other than sleep and watch TV, and he's so goddamn tired of TV. Plus sleep's definitely out these days. "You never thought she might, I dunno, have some kind of reason for doing all that?"

"Probably," Sam says. "She is a demon."

He turns his head, quirks up an eyebrow. "And that doesn't bother you?"

"Believe me, Ruby's had a million chances to do me in. I trust her. She wants the same thing I do."

"Which is?"

Pause. "Uh, a good salad and curly fries?"

Dean stares at him, and deadpans, "Well. As long as we got that covered." He glances at Sam's shirt, then back at the ceiling. "By the way, you look like a douche."

"Don't care." It really sounds like he doesn't.

"I guess it fits the demonic girlfriend thing," he muses. "Hey, here's a joke for you: a demon and a douche walk into a bar. Ow, and motherfuckin' good riddance."

Sam sighs. "Not asking your permission, Dean."

"Good," he says, "I'm not giving it. Because also? Your girlfriend's a bitch." She really is.

Sam puts on a jacket, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like _your angel boyfriend's not much better._

Dean ignores that because one, he's the bigger man, and two, fuck Sam, seriously. But while on the subject - "It's weird, you know?" he says, frowning. "Been a while since my last heavenly visitation." Either from Cas or from Zachariah. Not even Uriel's showed, which is pretty fucking concerning.

The clock's running and no one's telling him what to do.

Yeah, concerning's an understatement.

"They're probably busy."

Bitter much? "No, I'm telling you, something's wrong. Usually I get some kinda weekly talk about what's going on." And more to the point, what to do about Sam. "A sign or dream or something."

"Maybe it's for the best."

Okay, this is bizarre. Dean props himself up on his elbows and latches his eyes on the tall hunter lingering in the doorway. "Dude," he points out, "if they don't come back we don't have the first clue about what's happening with the seals, or how to stop the devil, or… or anything."

"And? Not like they were all that helpful anyway."

Dean blinks. The Sam he knows would care. "I thought you were religious?" he tries, lamely.

Sam rolls his eyes. "That's before I knew they were a bunch of dicks. Frankly, I think we're better off without them."

"Okay, so they're dicks, I agree with you, but that doesn't mean we don't need them."

"Actually I think that's exactly what that means."

"Dude," Dean says. "What's the matter with you? You think this is funny? This is life or death, here."

"Dude," Sam mocks back. "Since when do you care? You're just fine with sitting on your ass, aren't you? You like being a good little soldier."

He sits up. "Hey, fuck you."

"You know, Dean," Sam says, "you've been crabby as all hell lately, and I just can't figure out why. Did you finally realize that maybe you shouldn't be such a freaking airhead when the entire world's at stake? That maybe you shouldn't try to distract me with werewolves and wishing wells, maybe we should actually do something about the apocalypse?

He narrows his eyes, ignoring the twinge of guilt in his gut. "Something, like what?"

Sam throws up his arms. "I don't know, anything! It's like you're trying to keep us at a standstill! You think these little hunts mean anything in the grand scheme of things, when Lillith is trying to bring the world down around us? It's like you expressly enjoy doing nothing important!"

Fuck. Fuck, he's too close, he's going to figure it out - "It's what we're supposed to do –"

"No it's not, Dean! Come on, are you really so naïve? Haven't you thought at all that the angels might, I don't know, have their own agenda?"

"Yeah, saving the world!"

"It's not saving the world," Sam says earnestly. "Look, if they really wanted to stop it, if there was anything we could do to stop it, they'd have given us our marching orders the moment you got back. They'd have guards out not just on one seal, but all of them. They'd freaking let us help!"

He scowls up at him. "They are! You'll get your chance, Sam, I promise you, you just need to stop being so impatient and trust me –"

"You're calling me impatient? Me? The end of the world's literally almost here! You're not impatient enough!"

"If anyone knows what they're doing, don't you think it'd be the angels, not a freaking hunter from Kansas -"

"How can you be so blind?" Sam snaps, looming over Dean. "Dude, they're leading you by the nose! You think Ruby's a bitch, but we've done more for the cause than any dick angel! What has Castiel done for us, huh? Or his boss? What have you done, Dean, except for _absolutely nothing?_"

He blinks.

_Drip. Drip. _

_A flash of silver. __The agony isn't in the act, the delicacy's in the anticipation, the moment just before –_

"You want nothing?" Dean says.

_Don't just sit there, darlin', **participate** –_

"How about you, how's that for a big fuckload of nothing."

Sam's forehead wrinkles, as if in confusion. His arms fall to his sides.

He stands up, and talks right into Sam's stupid face. "Tell me, man, why you so scared of your brother?"

The giant stills. "What do you mean, Dean?" he says, slowly stepping backwards.

He almost laughs at that. Run away, Sammy boy, run away. "I _mean_, you little, squealing _bitch_, tell me why I got the distinct feelin' you don't want my memories back."

Sam's eyes widen. "W-what?" he stutters.

He feels the smile spread across his face, nice and easy. "You really thought I didn't notice, didn't you, darlin'?" he says. "Well, well. Talk about naïve."

"I don't know what you're -"

"So you googled amnesia. Good going, college boy. Fat lot of effort that was."

The hazel eyes widen. There's an audible swallow as Sam backs away. "I told you, there's nothing I could do, there isn't a spell for –"

"And that's a whole lotta crap too, isn't it?" he says, perfectly pleasant. "'Course there's a spell for amnesia. There's a spell out there for frigging everything. But you didn't even look."

"I couldn't –"

"Couldn't? Couldn't what, exactly? There's any number of things you might have done, people you could have called. Seers, psychics, witches, you got the entire supernatural spectrum in your phonebook. Even if they didn't lead anywhere. You could have at least tried." Sam opens his mouth but Dean just goes on quietly, "For fuck's sake, Sam, you thought angels did it, but when they showed up you didn't say a fucking _word_."

"I – I didn't – "

"That's right. You didn't."

"There was, there was nothing I –"

"Ah, that word again," he says softly, and slams the table with a hand as he stalks forward. Sam flinches. "Nothing. You're so good at nothing, Sammy, it's friggin' amazing." His voice hardens. "Why?"

"Dean, I -" Sam chokes out.

He stops. He cocks his head to the side, brings his hands up. "Yeah? I'm listening, bro."

Sam swallows and looks away. His mouth trembles. His hand's white as it clutches into a fist. He might be crying.

But Dean doesn't care.

So he isn't Sam's brother, so fucking what. He'd still had the guy's back. He'd still been the guy's friend. He'd still done everything Sam's ever asked of him, and he'd still put up with such a fuckton of _crap._

Anyone else would have been long gone by now. Anyone else would have left the moment they met a ghost, or after almost getting killed by a Black Dog, or a werewolf, or when they found out about Sam's demonic powers. The second they found out they didn't need to have anything to do with Sam after all.

Forget Zachariah. Forget the angels' fucking plan. He's put his heart and soul into this kid. Into keeping him happy, keeping him _safe_. He's done all he could and with an axe over his head. He's dying in a month and Sam's been going behind his back, can't even trust him to have his welfare in mind. Like the angels really have it in for them - Sam's the freaking blind one here. Sam can't even appreciate what a fucking _tiresome_ business it is, taking care of someone who might as well be a fucking stranger. He's done all that work pro frigging bono.

And this is what he gets.

This is what he gets?

Wow. No. Fuck that.

"Why, Sam?"

And the kicker is, Sam actually thinks Dean's his brother. This is all what he'd do to the real Dean if he were here.

The guy would treat his own brother like a fucking liability.

"I. I didn't want you to..." Sam stops, wets his lips. Looks so incredibly uncertain and, and pale - "I just didn't -"

And something about it just takes it all out of Dean.

He sighs. Shuts his eyes for a minute, rubbing at his face. "Whatever," he says, ice in his gut. " Go on your date, I don't care. Just get out."

"Dean, I'm, I didn't mean to –"

Right. Now he wants to talk.

"_Out._"

Sam doesn't hesitate twice.

0000

Dean stands there for a moment, doing nothing but breathing. Nothing but standing there and breathing.

In. Out.

Okay.

…What was that. What the fuck was that.

He'd just gone completely psycho on Sam. Like some kind of sadistic psycho _douchebag_, who just wouldn't stop – didn't even think about stopping –

Where did that come from? He didn't even know he had that in him. No, what the fuck, it's notin him, it's not him. It's like he was – maybe he was –

He runs over to the windows, the door. Checks the salt lines. The devil's trap. His own anti-demon tattoo.

But everything's fine. Copacetic. No EMF. No blood trickling from his nose. No marks, or scuffs. He checks out with holy water and silver and... and everything.

Everything's okay. A big fat lotta nothing's wrong.

Which means… which means.

Dean sits on the bed, staring at his hands. They're big and calloused; not as big as Sam's, but just as deadly. Just as good at picking up a knife or a hatchet or a gun, even better at picking up a wrench or a lockpick or a screwdriver.

They're not even his hands.

He shudders. Sam had looked so - he'd looked almost _scared_ of him, what _was_ that.

God, if it wasn't - maybe it's him. Maybe it's the real him, finally bubbling up after all these months, smoking out of the cracks in his soul. The real him.

The sinner.

…He doesn't even know what he'd done.

Which is frigging idiotic, because, what, he's going to go to heaven, just like that? Really? A happy-go-lucky dweeb, running away from everything he did? Everything he used to be?

It's not that he wants to change, be someone else. He likes who he is – really and actually likes it, could stand to be the happy-go-lucky dweeb forever and always.

But it's not fair. Not to the people he'd wronged. Not to himself. He's owed better than that. Ignorance is bliss but maybe he doesn't deserve either. He can't know for sure.

Not until he remembers.

0000

The wishing coin slips out of his pocket and into his hand. He stares down at it, throat tightening, and rises to his feet.

He doesn't even think about Sam. This has got nothing to do with him.

And yeah. He knows - he knows what he's risking, what might happen. Everything is going to change.

This is probably the stupidest thing he's ever done.

But there's no choice left, really. Not anymore. He needs to know.

He needs to know.

0000

He lets the coin fall.

* * *

_A/N: Consider the biggest mystery solved: now you know why Dean keeps scratching his arm._

_ As always, hope you enjoyed. It was all supposed to lead up to this. Hopefully you can make some guesses as to what's happening and maybe even why it's happening, but either way answers will come, I assure you._

_Let me know what you think. Next chapter is not going to be pretty..._


	26. I won't hear them

_A/N: Should probably mention I'm taking some liberties from canon._

_Enjoy. This part's a little trippy._

* * *

_They call him stubborn._

_He's not sure why. It's not like he yells at them anymore. Or talks all that much anymore. He mostly just hangs there and takes it, really._

_It's not that he doesn't want to give in, either. Actually it feels like all he does is give in, sometimes. It's just that… just, if they ever found out, upstairs. If they ever heard, if they somehow discovered what he was only a breath away from doing and how much he wants it, how he dreams of so very little else –_

_It's just. If they knew, upstairs, if one day they'll hear his name and all they'll feel is disgust – more disgust –_

_He can't. He can't do it. He knows it doesn't makes sense. It doesn't. Upstairs is so far away from here._

_They'll never know._

_But if, but what if –_

_0000_

_He hates whimpering. Hates giving in. Hates feeling pathetic, being pathetic. Even after all this time._

_Maybe that's why._

_0000 _

Change of plans, darlin'. Let's try something new.

_His grip on the chains tightens. _

_New. New's always bad._

_That's the first thing you learn._

First, let's take that away. You won't need it anymore.

_He waits, but nothing happens. He stares blankly._

_"Take what away?" he rasps._

_Grin._

Exactly_._

_0000_

Whatcha going to be when you grow up, kid? Wanna be like me?

_His chest bursts, ribs flying whimsically all over the place. He watches them go, stick to the walls and rattle to the floor like so much useless baggage. He doesn't really get why, but somehow the sound they make when they land is worse than the pain._

_Much worse than the pain._

_"Hurts," he manages to say, which is strange because it should be impossible, strange because thinking's impossible, nothing comes out his lips anymore, nothing but blood and teeth and does he even have a mouth, now?_

_…Strange. Too strange. _

_"Hurts," he says again, just for the novelty._

Won't hurt,_ comes the promise, caressing his skin like a fond razor._ When you're like me, won't hurt at all.

_The offer's been made before, many times, but it's only now that he really considers it; considers his stinging palms, considers the smell of burning flesh. Considers the scene around him, the red and the black, his heart on the ground still rolling to a halt._

_And considers what it might mean to have it all stop._

_There are questions, of course. Only fools wouldn't ask, would walk into hell with their eyes shut._

_Or, you know, whatever._

_"It won't?" he asks, making sure, because with them you can never tell._

_A smile, sharp. It usually means danger, but this time he thinks it might be a good thing. Or as good as it gets here, anyway._

I swear, kiddo, won't hurt at all. Just say the word and you're off.

_He thinks about it. It's been such a long time, and this is a big step. He doesn't know if he's ready for off._

_It's been such a long time._

C'mon, c'mon, what's all this hesitatin' for? Don't you want outta this place? Don't you want to see the world?

_And, well. Put that way, there's really no other answer, is there._

_It's not much of a choice._

_ "Okay," he shrugs, a mindless shriek leaving his mouth in the same breath._

_He pays it no attention._

_"Okay," he says again, because i__f there's another place but here, he wants to see it._

_ 0000_

_The voice lied. _

_By the time he realizes, though, it really doesn't matter anymore._

_000 _

_He rips and shreds and slices and carves. He sees the world – his world, anyway. He's told that there's an upstairs, but he's never seen it. He thinks that someday he'd like to go. They promise him that someday he will._

_Every once in a while, he laughs. _

_It__ feels good._

_ 000_

_She bares her teeth and bites into his neck with a grin._

How sweet you are,_ she murmurs afterwards. _How very very sweet.

_0000_

Who are you?

_"Yours," he breathes, and knows it's the right thing to say._

_0000 _

Prodigy.

_It should make him flinch, and somewhere inside him maybe it does. But the rest of him is used to it and so instead he just smiles proudly and burrows into their warmth, basking in the praise. Their claws are gentle as they slice down his back comfortingly, and it's good. It's good._

_Say what you will. Prodigy's better than prey._

_0000_

_…Except it isn't. The realization comes to him suddenly, like a jolt of pain. His knife drops._

_It isn't, actually. It isn't better at all._

_This isn't him. This is all wrong._

_His smiles were never meant to last._

_ 0000_

_He starts to doubt. Resist. They wear him down, laughing all the while. He doesn't blame them - it's pretty easy, and he doesn't give them much of a fight._

_"I don't want to," he whispers, once, tries to explain. Maybe they'll understand if he explains. "I don't want to. I'm done, I'm done, I don't want to do it anymore –"_

You just ain't holdin' it right._ Big stubby… not-fingers clutch the top of his hand, mold it against the blade. They make a cut, together. _There. That's a whole lot better, isn't it?

_No. No. It isn't better at all._

_Someone screams. He flinches. "No, no stop, I don't want to, stop –"_

Shhh, darlin', shhh. It gets better, it's gonna be so much better.

…See? You just ain't holdin' it right.

_0000_

My lovely, my sweet. Aren't you mine?_ she smiles at him. Master smiles too, knife flashing red in his grip. _Aren't you ours?

_"Yes," he says back, "yes, but –"_

_ 0000_

_"No," he sighs, and this time, doesn't let go._

_They scream at him._

_He doesn't let go._

_ 0000_

_Hiss. _Useless.

_ 0000_

_They try to bring him back. _

_They try for a long, long time._

_ 0000_

…Thirsty?

_He blinks, but there's nothing to see._

_"Hel-hello?" he croaks out. The word gets swallowed up by the black, gone like it had never been spoken. Maybe it wasn't; the silence returns soon enough, heavy and muffled and all the more immense for it, like a towering punishment of failure._

_It almost hurts. He recoils; becomes small, pathetic, safe. He likes pathetic. Likes safe even better. Safe is good._

_…Not familiar, no. __But good._

_The voice comes again. _Thirsty? Thirsty?

_He frowns – or something close to it. The muscles of his face feel different, alien, pulling and pushing in odd and unfamiliar directions._

_It feels like a frown, though. He thinks._

_He tries again. "Is someone there?"_

Oh yes_, the voice answers, as if from across a vast distance._ Oh yes, oh yes_, countless others echo._

_"Where are you?" he asks, barely able to hear himself. It's too quiet, he's drowning in quiet - "Who are you?"_

Me_, the voice replies._

Us_! another cries._

No one, no one, no one,_ the others chortle._

_…He has no idea what to do with that._

_"Can you help me?" he tries instead. He's not sure what he's asking, what kind of help he's looking for. Something to start, maybe, or something to stop. He doesn't know which._

_Exasperated huff. _Questions, questions.

_Something giggles._ Right questions.

_Another laughs. _Late questions.

_His knees (how many? He doesn't know) shatter, reform. "Please," he begs, crawling forward on all limbs, feeling weak and gone and so very brittle. Each contact with the ground yields a wet crunch he doesn't dare think about. "Please, help me."_

_Surprise. _Please?

Please?

Never said please before.

_He not-frowns again. "What do you mean?" he asks desperately, suddenly daring to raise his voice. It cuts sharply through the vastness like an unforgivable transgression. "You… you know me? You know who I am?"_

Of course, of course.

We did.

You did.

Long time ago.

Better not, though. Not now. Better not.

_"You know me?" he repeats, suddenly hungry, desperate. His fingers – no, not fingers, something tells him they aren't that anymore (and if so maybe they never were) – scrabble for purchase as he tries to heave himself closer, pull his rotting body along the slime, the ashes. That wet crunching follows him still, and he knows that blindness is a gift. "You know me?"_

Shouldn't ask. Better not, better not.

Too far along.

Better not, now. better not.

_"No!" his yell becomes a whisper. His not-fingers dig into something soft and sharp that slithers around his torso. "Tell me. Please."_

Another please.

Bad sign.

Bad sign.

Better this. Better like this.

_He rattles his bones in protest. They're wrong, wrong - "Not better like this. Not better."_

Not better?_ one voice questions._

Much better,_ another decides._

_"It's not." His voice cracks – but somehow it doesn't sound like his, so he doesn't mind. "It's not."_

_The voices clamor together almost angrily, protesting. _Listen, listen. No one better. No one good.

_"But," he starts. "But –"_

No no. Trust us. Trust us.

Better like this.

_"But -"_

_They sound irritated, mystified._

Taking too long. Talking too long.

Better now. Pain before. Pain behind.

No one, no pain. Keep going. Better now.

_"Pain?" he says, and wonders, _what pain?

_Suddenly they gather around him – he can feel them, presences that are just barely palpable, ghosts that just barely exist. He strains his limbs, reaches, yearning to touch – it's been so long since he touched._

_They skitter out of his grasp, their movements echoing in the nothing; slithering of scales, scuttling of claws, the flapping of wings._

_Their whispers are almost mournful._

Too late. Too far along.

Not long, now. Not long.

_None of it makes sense. "Not long for what?" Progress is impossible, but he's used to that now, doesn't dare stop because if he does he might get stuck, he might get changed, and that would be the worst, somehow he knows that would be the worst._

_Just as he thinks that something vast presses him to the ground and turns him onto his back. He whimpers as it circles him curiously, gives only a token resistance. _

_There's no point. This is normal. This is what happens here._

_…Wherever here is._

_Pressure. He coughs (heaves, secretes, he doesn't know anymore). Thinking's becoming difficult, blurry – he squints, but nothing clears and only the darkness sharpens its edges. "Not long for what?"_

_Sadness._

Ah.

Ah.

No time.

Sorry, sorry. Better this way.

_He struggles weakly but feels himself losing, his spines splitting, his limbs tearing. The silence engulfs him again, cackling to itself in the unfamiliar tune of the victor. Fins and claws caress his face, fleeting afterimages in the dark._

_He has the strangest feeling they're his._

_"Who?"he gets out, one last thought before he drowns under himself. "Who?"_

_And they whisper back:_

Don't remember?

Don't remember?

We used to be yours -

_Something leaks into his mouth, tasting of copper. _

Thirsty?

_He screams. _

_That's the last sound he hears for a while._

_0000_

_The taste, though. That doesn't leave._

* * *

Sam is yelling.

It's loud.

"-why I'm calling! I've been trying for half an hour – no idea what happened – "

Dean's not sure what Sam could be yelling about this early in the morning. Or who he's yelling at, for that matter – no one's here other than Dean.

Funny, though. Doesn't feel like Sam's yelling at him.

"-don't know, Bobby! You tell me, because I don't fucking _know_!"

Not that that makes any sense.

"No, no EMF, no sign anyone broke in, nothing like that… Yeah, they're salted, I checked. No trace of sulfur. Got him that tattoo weeks ago. What, angels? No, can't be."

Maybe Sam's crazy.

"…Because it can't, okay? I… yeah, hex bags, how'd you… Couple of weeks ago. Yeah, Ruby." There's an odd muffled sound right then, like a tiny person shouting. "I know, okay, I know – Bobby, _Bobby_, you can tear me a new one later, we need to – no I didn't tell him. Because, okay? I don't trust those angels, you know that. _No_, it's got nothing to do with her. Can you –" Sam glances at him. "Bobby, we need to help him, okay, can we just talk about –"

Yeah, maybe Sam's crazy.

A long exhale. "No. TV's off too, not like he watched something and triggered – no, no phone calls. Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure."

It's possible.

"Nothing. Can't get a sound out of him. Tried that… nothing like a reaction, Bobby, he just sits there and blinks at me like he's freaking _catatonic_ –"

A shaky breath.

"No, I've no clue what could have… Stress? Bobby, this is him we're talking about. Give him a bar and a girl and he's good to go."

More muffled sounds.

Sam's face wrinkles. "I'm not a dumba – you're not getting it, Bobby, this is nothing like – trust me, if you could see him… there's nothing normal about this. This isn't a tantrum or him ignoring me, this is – it's like he's just," his throat works, "…like he's just checked out. You know. No one's home."

Sam tilts his head, as if thinking.

Dean watches. Mainly because there's nothing better to do.

"Well, yeah, we fought, but it's not like... Um, no. We didn't exactly – something stupid, never mind what. Look, he wasn't, uh, totally happy with me, all right, but you know us, it's not a big –" Sam bites his knuckle, then suddenly glares at the wall. "We're not kids anymore, Bobby! Right, yeah, I know he's different now," he turns his body away, eyes darting over his shoulder in Dean's direction for a brief instant. The voice turns lower. "But it's still the same guy, Bobby, it's not like he just – how is this helpful, of course I've been _nice_ –"

His hand brushes his hair back from his forehead, fingers running through the long brown strands. Every time he glances at Dean his mouth presses into a shaky white line.

"I told you, there's no hunt, I just got back to the room and he – what's that supposed to mean, unresolved? We clean up after ourselves, what the hell do you think we – "

Sam's pacing.

"What does he look like?" There's a scowl on Sam's face, and sweat glimmering on his forehead; he wipes at it with a sleeve. "What does he _look_ like? Like no one's freaking home, Bobby, like a fucking blinking _corpse_!"

Sam's face tightens. His fingers are trembling almost imperceptibly, just enough to be distracting. Dean looks at them, the way they clutch the phone. _Just stop_, he wants to tell them. _Stay still. It'd be easier if you do._

"Sorry, I'm sorry. It's just… yeah. You could say that." Sam inhales. "No. Normal. I don't know, a little pale, maybe?" Sam comes closer, peering at Dean's face, picking up his hands, examining his arms. " Green. Even. No scratches, no marks. Stitches from a job - werewolf, clean." Pause. "Nothing, he's just… just sitting there. Upright. Not stiff, exactly, wouldn't say that. Looks like he just got dressed when –" he nods, as if to himself. "Hey, what if it's a strie – no I know it goes after kids, but – " He frowns again.

And then suddenly stills. Dean feels Sam's hands tighten around his once, twice.

"…What are you saying?"

The feeling of skin on his abruptly fades as Sam stands and disappears from view. Dean wonders distantly where he's gone to, but then discovers he doesn't actually care all that much.

He finds it pretty hard to care about anything.

"No, there's no way that – how does that make any sense? What, just like, out of the blue, all at once, some kind of massive trauma turning him into a zombie – this is real life, Bobby, not a Lifetime movie, what the hell are you watching – because it can't be, okay? It can't be. He can't remember hell, Dean can't remember hell - _because __how am I supposed to handle it if he does –_"

Better that way, really.

There's a long silence. Dean almost feels like humming.

"Damn it." The voice is a whisper now. "If you're right, if that's, if that's why – that's –" The bed under Dean rattles, shakes, like a heavy object fell on top of it. "…God. Oh God, Bobby -"

A brief touch on his back. A hand, maybe.

"No, I – I'm fine."

...Or maybe not. Better not to know.

"So what's the plan, I mean, there has to be something right? He can't just – he can't just stay like this, there has to be something –"

Yeah. Better not.

"Do you – I mean, do you think we should come – right, you're right. I…. Yeah. Bring everything you got." The voice sounds small. "We'll stay put. Yeah, no worries, I don't…don't see much chance of that. Okay. See you."

_Click_. A clatter.

Something breaks – Dean hears the pieces falling. Something pants – Dean can hear it, big shuddering gulps of air. He doesn't flinch, though.

He's pretty much beyond flinching.

A shadow falls into his lap, and Sam's face abruptly fills Dean's vision, blocking out everything except for a bit of carpet and a billowing cloth that might be a curtain.

It's way too close for comfort. Dean can see tiny scars and fine wrinkles, like a microscopic soldier had carved out trenches and wells into a battlefield of a face.

Dean traces their paths absently with his eyes. They're not very remarkable or interesting. He's seen worse.

The moment stretches.

Dean wishes Sam would move away - it's distracting. But Sam doesn't leave, just stays there, just stays there and stares at him, peering into his eyes as if there's something behind them, or maybe inside them.

Dean wonders if Sam is finding anything. Probably not. There's nothing to see.

And besides, it's quite the wrong place to look.

Sam's lips move. "Dean?" they say. "Are - are you in there?"

He blinks at them. What a strange question.

"Dean," they repeat. "Come on, man, talk to me. Give me a sign, anything. Let me know you're there."

Anything? Like what?

"Please, this – this isn't funny, it's really not funny, Dean, just say something, just say anything. Anything. Please."

Please. Dean blinks again. Never said please before.

_Bad sign._

_Bad sign._

"Dean – Dean, what are you – stop – no, no don't, stop! _STOP!_"

0000

Copper runs into his mouth. He gags.

Weak. Too weak. They try to stop him, punish him, and he tries to fight but can't struggle like he ought. Doesn't want to struggle like he ought.

Had enough of struggling, really. Lost cause if there ever was one.

Something soft and bland wraps around his head, forcing his teeth apart and his bleeding tongue still. Something just as curiously soft wraps around his wrists, his hands – if he still has those, that is –

They can try, but the taste never leaves.

He's learned that already.

0000

"-gotta get here soon, Bobby, I… Dean just – just flipped out on me and I, I had to… you just gotta get here, okay -"

0000

"Can you hear me? Dean?"

He closes his eyes. No.

"Dean?"

Just… no.

0000

"You can't do this, okay, you can't. You just came back, I just got used to you being back, I'm, I'm not ready to do this again – "

0000

Footsteps, back and forth. "- Goddamn it – the hell's taking him so -"

0000

"About – about your memories. I... I'm just so fucking sorry, Dean, I don't know what I was thinking."

Pause.

"Guess I wasn't.

It's just that – you… you seemed so… light, you know? Happy, for once. Like we were normal, like you never had life throw you a curveball, and I guess – I guess I didn't want you to lose that. Didn't want you to look at me and be…disappointed with what I've done. God, you're still so – you, it's like you're even more you, because when you look at me you don't expect anything, you don't have to remember everything I cost you –

I should have just – I should have left you at that diner. You would have been okay. But it just… it hurt so goddamn much to mean nothing to you, man. Even if I deserve that.

I know I deserve that.

Tell you the truth, once I knew you were for real, I kinda – I kinda thought you might leave anyway. I still don't get why you didn't. Same – same old Dean, right? Even when you're a blank slate I can't figure you out.

Like, it could have played out so many different ways, you know? You didn't have to get into the Impala. You didn't have to watch my back. You don't remember anything, but you trust me, like – "

Sharp inhale.

Exhale.

"Hah, look at me. Embarrassing. Like this was one of those telenovelas you don't watch. You'd be yelling at the screen by now. Say something like 'let another douchebag get some screentime, asshole, I'm changing the channel –'"

Noise.

"Damn it. Damn it, Dean, I just want you to be okay –"

* * *

_A/N: Aaand that's the last update for a while. Please review._


	27. holding on to no one

_A/N: Okay, so that came faster than I thought. Everyone's so kind with their reviews! Thank you, thank you, thank you. I'm really glad you guys are enjoying this._

* * *

There are words.

He notes them distantly. The light on the wallpaper shifts as the door suddenly opens and shuts, gusting a bit of dust in his direction.

"…Good God."

An audible swallow. "I know what it looks like –"

Footsteps - hesitant at first, louder as they near. "Sam, what – what the _hell_ did you –"

"I had to." Someone makes a muffled noise like they're choking. It's familiar, though, so he doesn't pay it much attention. "I had to, Bobby, you don't understand, he was going to – he almost –"

"Easy, easy. I'm here now, all right? We got this, we'll figure it out."

"Yeah. I... yeah."

There are more words, he notices, watching the wall. He considers listening and trying to figure them out, where they came from and why they're here, but soon enough dismisses the idea.

When all's said and done, words are pretty pointless.

0000

"Fuck, how did I miss – I didn't even think to look –"

"Stop being so hard on yourself. No, you weren't thinking straight, but you did exactly the right thing, getting me. Couldn't have done this on your own."

"But Bobby, how can we – he has to pick it up, it won't work unless he picks it up and he's – he's –"

"Sam, for the last damn time, breathe." Pause, then a sigh. "Know what, you've clearly been cooped up here too long. How about you take a little break, huh? Stretch out those legs of yours."

"You gotta be kiddin' me –"

"I really look like the kiddin' type?"

"Bobby –"

"Get on with it, Sam, scram. And take Kennedy for a walk too while you're at it, poor thing's probably bored stiff out there."

"…Still can't believe you brought him."

"Boy, I haven't left my house for anything longer than a grocery run in fifteen years. If you think I'm leavin' my dog behind, you better think the hell again."

0000

Coarse fingers run down his face, gentle as anything. "You've sure done a number on yourself, haven't you?"

Something ruffles his hair. Another breeze, maybe. Just some dust. He wouldn't mind some dust.

Dust's better than a lot of things.

"…You could've called, you know. If something was botherin' you. I would've listened."

The fingers drop. Someone's face takes up his entire view – a strong face, with narrow, heavy eyes that gleam and glare.

"Think I don't know you can hear me, don't you. Think I was born yesterday? You've been eavesdropping since the cradle, you really believe I can't tell when you're playing innocent?"

Innocent.

"Feel free to drop the act. Anytime, now."

He doesn't remember what that's like anymore.

"…That's all right. You go right on ahead and sit there, Dean, but don't you think for a second that you're getting outta this scot free. You hear me? You best start planning how to make it up to me and Sam once you're back. You got your brother worried stupid for ya. And seems like I got a hell of a lot of yellin' to do about taking souvenirs you shouldn't, don't I. Good thing I came here in person to do just that."

Hand on his cheek – and it is a hand, he can feel five distinct points of pressure around his ear, over his neck.

Just a hand.

"It's all right. Looks like I gotta get you out of this one."

…He hopes it's just a hand.

"You'll be fine. You'll be fine, you hear?"

It squeezes. Oddly enough, it doesn't really hurt.

"You stupid, stupid idjit. It's all gonna be fine."

0000

"I know I shouldn't have, and I'm sorry, but we need your help – he needs your help - "

Silence.

"I will do what I can."

* * *

The bell jingles as someone opens the door.

He turns around, still wiping his hands with a dirty towel. "Oh, hey. Need something?"

The man squints, looking bemused and out of place. "Where are we?"

He shrugs, gestures with a thumb up at the sign over his head. "Read the label, dude."

The guy does just that. "Jackson Auto," he repeats. "This… this is a garage?"

He tosses the towel on the table, picks up some wax and a buffer to finish up on the cherry Ford he'd been working on – none of that fancy electric stuff, this is pure man action going on here. "Bingo," he says. "So I'm going to go ahead and assume you have a car for me to fix up."

A pause stretches for too long. He glances sideways; the guy's craning his head back, peering at the ceiling windows, the car parts hanging on the walls.

Something about way he goes about it is profoundly irritating.

"What," he says.

The guy cocks his head to the side, then blinks at him. "The level of detail is exquisite."

"Think you mean detailing." He flicks on a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Did you just come here to stare, or do you actually have something worth fixing?"

"Yes," the man says, frowning absently. "This should not be possible."

He rolls his eyes. "Well, where is it? Planning on bringing it in anytime soon?"

A slow shake. "No. It's already here."

Patience, quickly running out. "Buddy, you got ten seconds to tell me why you're in my shop before I call the cops on you."

"Your brother prayed for me to come."

He's speechless for a brief surprised moment, then turns a meaningless grin on the delusional asshole. "See, I find that funny, because it just so happens I don't have one."

The man peers into his face. "Did you choose to forget him again?"

He blinks, taken aback. "What? No, dude, I just don't have one."

"Sam will be sad to hear that."

His head begins to throb. He shakes it anyway. "Who? Sorry, I don't know a –"

"Your brother. He wants me to help you."

"But I, I don't – I don't have a –"

"You do, Dean. Don't you remember?"

He staggers back. _Don't remember? Don't remember? _"No – Sam –"

"Dean. Dean, stop, don't let go –"

0000

A flash of light.

It blinks its eyes slowly, one by one, by one, by one.

There isn't much light here, in the depths. Hasn't been much light here in a long, long time. It had forgotten what that was like, light.

Wrong, as it turns out. Wrong, and strange.

Very strange. The sheer strangeness sends Them scattering beside it, frightened buzzes and scuttles and flaps by its feet.

It frowns at Them even as it keeps staring at where the strangeness had been. Far away, always so far away.

Best that way.

_They came back? _it asks, wondering. _She came back?_

No need to explain who. There is only one _She _here.

They flitter around it, snipping at its ankles, pinching at its paws. They will never forgive, it thinks to itself. They will never forgive.

Which is – which is right. Which is only right.

It'll always be sorry, and that won't ever be enough.

_No,_ some of Them answer finally, biting along the inside of one ear. _Not her, not her. Something other._

It relaxes, uncoiling, but promptly flinches as Their little talons shred its belly to pieces.

It always forgets. There is no relaxing here.

…Only right.

0000

Time doesn't matter much here either, but sometime after the strangeness had passed it remembers another question to ask, as though the light had stirred something new in its belly.

_What other? What other?_

They glance down from its horns, up from by its feet. They are always near, now, always nearby.

Penance.

_Don't know, _some say, some snarl._ Don't know. Something different._

Something new. It hopes whatever it is won't stay long.

There are distant sounds, and then more distant sounds. And more blazes of light – it stares at them, tracking the sparks unwillingly with its eyes, a part of it fearing blindness and another part craving it. It freezes in place, conflicted and torn, and doesn't know whether to flock near or hide; the light is intriguing, alluring, but new's always bad.

Usually.

_Different?_ it asks.

Something shatters next to Them – They scatter, whimpering. It follows Them to the shadows, where it shivers in the chill, sheltering Them from the harsh glow. It stings a little, the scales on its back peeling off, but never mind that. It owes Them that much.

It owes Them a lot.

_Wrong,_ they say. _Very, very wrong._

More noises, and then another flash of light, close this time and dazzling – They can't help but cry out loudly, covering themselves with wings and scales and hands with too many fingers.

It just sighs. So much noise, it thinks. Too much noise.

A shrill hum rings through the air, vibrating in its gills. Somehow things are different once it's gone; the silence afterwards feels nothing short of profane.

Bad.

_What was that? What was that?_

_Something wrong_, They tell him, _Something very, very wrong – _

Again the hum sounds. Again, and again, and then again. Almost as though trying to reach something.

Almost as though looking for someone.

_No! _some of Them cry. _No no no no – _

_Take us too, _others say, _take us too – _

A burst of wind blasts them off its throat, its spine, unhooking claws and fangs and beaks from its skin. The sudden absence of Them makes it blink its eyes, and then suddenly the light – suddenly it is engulfed by light and a hum that says here, here, I found it –

I AM AN ANGEL OF THE LORD, AND I HAVE COME FOR YOU.

0000

Pain returns in a burst of white and red. The shout still rattles in its head, awful and meaningless, and so it scampers back on broken heels and knees, no longer curious because curious is bad, curious is the worst.

Just like new. Just like –

"Dean."

A touch on its arm throws the world off kilter. It flinches, squeezes its eyes tightly shut.

"Can you hear me?"

The touch remains. There is a peculiar sort of… waver, then, in the air. Something that changes, like burning_._

Everything burns.

"This is not you. This is not who you are. This is not where you belong."

Strange. It hadn't thought the light could get worse.

"Listen to me. This isn't – this cannot be where your soul resides. Not yours. Never yours."

A touch on… something of its. Not bone-sharp, or blood-wet, or heart-soft. Not slashing, or cracking, or breaking.

Just a touch. Just… contact.

Doesn't even hurt.

"You don't belong here, Dean, you know that. You must know that."

Strange, strange.

"This is in your head. None of this is real."

Too strange –

"It already happened."

* * *

"There, there you go, just like that – pick it up –"

0000

His hand is wet. There's a weird, almost cottony taste in his mouth.

"Stop that, Kennedy," someone says irritably. "Sam, I thought I told you to tie him up outside."

"But it's cold out."

"For crying out loud, he's a full grown Rottweiler, not some blonde bimbo's Chihuahua. Tie him outside! Jesus."

A mutter.

"Oh, and get us something to eat. I could go for a burger."

"Okay." Pause. "Should I – you think that –"

"One each, Sam. Maybe even two. If I know him, and I do, he's gonna be starving when he wakes up."

"Hah. Right."

Silence, then footsteps.

"And Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"That includes the dog."

0000

He opens his eyes and sees a ceiling.

It's off white and cracked and unremarkable. Not important. Could be anywhere.

He swallows. Raises his hands up over his eyes, stares at them. Keeps staring at them, even as his vision twists and blurs.

Pink. Ten fingers, five each. Whorls and lines, and calluses from a gun. A band of raw torn skin across his wrists, scratches healing across his palms.

But still, normal hands. Human hands.

Human, not –

A sudden clatter, the squeal of a chair being pushed aside. "Dean!"

Just human.

A shadow falls over him, but it only hovers there, wavering, as though on the cusp of reaching out.

He doesn't look to see if it will.

"…Dean? Back with us, kiddo?"

His hands flutters down his face. Smooth skin. Eyes. Nose. Mouth. Everything's there that's supposed to be there.

He thinks.

"C'mon, kid, give me something to work with here."

His cheeks ache as if from a distance. The corners of his lips feel rough, sore. His eyes are dry, gummy at the edges.

"How-" he says, and then coughs.

"Oh thank God," Bobby says, bringing him a cup of water with one hand, helping him sit up with the other. The old man leaves his hand where it is, doesn't hesitate or cringe even, just lets his warm hand linger on Dean's back for a long, long moment. "Here, have some."

He considers not drinking it – what if it's holy water, he doesn't know what he'd do if it's holy water – but in the end his throat's parched and none of that really matters anyway. He swallows it down.

It tastes like nothing.

"That any better?"

He nods, not looking up.

Someone – Bobby – takes the cup away and carefully puts a hand on his face, tilting it backward. "Dean. Talk to me."

He just barely stops himself from flinching, and just shrugs Bobby off instead. He swings his legs over and sits on the edge of the bed. "I'm fine," he says. His voice comes out hoarse, painful. "How – how long –"

"Been a couple of days."

He nods again. "Right."

The sharp old eyes consider him for a moment. "Want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

A pause, then a nod. "Later then." Bobby's voice is brusque, has no give in it, as if to make sure he knows there _will _be a later. "Hungry? Got some crackers here somewhere."

He shakes his head. "Not really," he murmurs at the ground.

A heavy sigh. "Dean, either you eat or you tell me what the hell you were thinking when you wished on a damn Tiamat talisman. Or what your wish was, though to tell you the truth, I'm pretty sure I know."

He swallows, tries to smile but his mouth doesn't want to move right. "Thought you said later."

"I offered you crackers. Now is later."

He wants to chuckle. Can't really make himself.

A pause. "You're awfully quiet," Bobby says, gentle. "Didn't think you knew how to do that."

"Sorry," he whispers.

Two hands on his shoulders. No escape, a part of him thinks, idly listening to his heartbeat jackrabbit in his ears. "It's all right," Bobby says softly. "I'm just worried about you."

He glances up for a second. "Because I'm Dean," he says.

"That's right," Bobby tells him, and he has to swallow hard. "And a damn fool, to boot."

If he were really Dean, Bobby's Dean, he might have let his head tip forward right then. Might have rested it on Bobby's chest like some stupid little kid, and just breathed in, and out, soaking in the old man's calm for as long as Bobby would let him.

But as it turns out, he's the farthest thing from Dean there is. So he doesn't.

He doesn't do any of that.

"What do you remember?" Bobby asks quietly. "Being Dean, before?"

"No." He never would. There's no reason for him to. "That didn't… didn't take."

In the end, he still doesn't know who he'd been. He just remembers the - the beginning. Feeling defiant, like there was a point to resisting. Not wanting to let someone down.

That didn't last long.

"Fuckin' coin," the man swears to himself, then sighs. "Well, just as well, I guess. We had it melted once we got you to take the damn thing out, should have put everything back to normal."

Oh. "Good."

The gray eyes watch him carefully. "You know it twists wishes until you want to take them back, don't you. It wasn't ever going to work like you wanted it to."

The corners of his mouth throb vaguely as they skew up. "Yeah."

"Then for the love of Pete, why'd you do it?"

He doesn't answer.

"Why'd you do it, Dean?"

It's easier not to.

Bobby shakes him, evidently unsatisfied. "Dean!" he says, and something about it sounds almost frightened.

He shrugs, avoiding Bobby's eyes. "I thought it would be worth it."

"To remember hell?!" Bobby says incredulously, hands cutting at the air, voice rising into a shout. "You thought it might _come in handy_ to remember hell?!"

"I don't remember hell," he says.

"Dean," Bobby says, "I knew you since when you were a kid. I knew you when your pappy bit it. When Sam kicked it. I've seen you go through crap no one should have to go through, and I've never seen you like this." He closes his eyes, opens them and they glower right through Dean. "Don't try to play me, son. You look like you lost a damn war."

He looks at the floor. "I don't remember hell," he repeats. "…Anymore."

Bobby sags visibly, falls to the chair by the bed. One leathery hand leaves the armrest in order to cover the bearded face. "Shit," he breathes raggedly.

"I don't," Dean says again. "I just… I can't un-know hell, either." The things he'd done. The… the thing he was for so long.

Always scared. Always pathetic.

And... and Them.

"What's the difference?"

He almost laughs. "Fuck if I know."

"You just shut down, Dean." Bobby sounds gruff, sad. He draws away, runs his hands through his beard. "We couldn't get anything outta you."

He stares at his palm. Pink. Five fingers. "Time's different in hell," he says, after a long moment. "I don't – I don't know how long I was there. An hour up here is like... forever." _So long, you couldn't even hold on to the idea of what you were supposed to look like_. "But when I made that wish, I remembered everything. Everything I did, everything that was… done. Every second." He closes his eyes. "It's supposed to fade, after a while. You're not… you're not supposed to handle that, I think. I couldn't."

"No one can."

He shrugs. "I guess."

"No one, Dean," Bobby says again, sharper. "You're not weak. You're one of the strongest people I know."

Wrong.

"I'm not the person you know," he whispers.

Bobby just looks at him for a while. "You sayin' I don't know you, Dean?"

He puts his face in his hand. It feels awful, saying it, but it's true, even if Bobby can never know how much. "You don't."

"You were in my house for a month. You call me every time you need help with a hunt, or with Sam, which let me tell you, is really running up my phone bill." His voice softens. "You think that's not enough?"

"You don't," he says, "you don't know who I really am, what I was –"

Bobby grabs his wrist, squeezing, and this time it hurts. "I know you got a guilt complex the size of Kentucky, for no reason I can figure. I know you're a bigger sap than Sam sometimes. I know you enjoy winding people up for the heck of it, and like to pretend you're an idiot because that makes life easier. I know you don't say half what you mean, and don't mean half what you say, and that all Sam has to do is make big eyes at you for you to let him do whatever he wants."

"Bobby…"

"I know you're a good man, who'd never want to hurt a soul." His face softens. "And frankly, Dean? That's no different from how you were before."

His eyes sting. It's wrong, it's so wrong – "No, Bobby, you don't, you can't – you don't understand, when I was in hell I –"

"Stop," Bobby cuts him off. "Stop it. What you did in hell stays in hell."

For a moment he can't breathe. Can't think.

He just stares.

"Dean," Bobby says, suddenly looking old. "I've read the literature. I… I read Revelations. And I can damn well read between the lines."

_Oh God_, he thinks, eyes going wide, wide. He tries to cringe away, but Bobby just tightens his grip on him. _Oh God, he knows – _

"I can't imagine what you went through down there. I don't think anyone can. But you have to leave it behind."

"Leave it," he echoes.

"You have to," Bobby agrees. "For your own sake. For Sam's. For mine. We need you to be okay, son."

He laughs a little. "You say you know what I did. You really think I can be okay?"

"You will be when you accept that whatever happened, you were forced to it."

He freezes, then shakes his head, trying to pull away from Bobby's iron grasp again. "No, I wasn't, I had a choice –"

"You thought you had a choice."

"I did -"

"You didn't."

"Bobby -"

"You didn't."

He stares at Bobby and Bobby just looks back at him, expression calm, impassive, with maybe just a hint of distress around the eyes.

Bobby tightens his grip. It hurts, this time. "You didn't have a choice, Dean," he says.

He just sits there motionless for a frozen, mindless second, and then something chokes him at the throat and Dean crumples, bends in half, one arm wrapped around his waist, tears squeezing out of his eyes, and suddenly his other hand darts out and he's holding on to Bobby as hard as Bobby's holding on to him. Oh God, Bobby -

"Shh," Bobby tells him, even though Dean hasn't said anything. "Shh. It's all right, Dean. It'll be all right."

It won't be - it can't, of course it can't - but just for a moment he lets himself pretend, pretend Bobby knows what he's talking about, pretend Bobby's really talking to him and not someone who died and will never come back.

"Please don't tell Sam," he croaks at the ground. "Please don't tell him."

"Dean…"

"Please," he begs, and it doesn't matter anymore, he doesn't care anymore, he lost his pride a very long time ago. "Please, Bobby, I, I can't – I can't take it if –"

"Okay." A hand on his back, pressing him close. "Okay, Dean. Whatever you want. Whatever you want."

0000

They're watching TV when the door opens, a foot kicking through, then a hand, then the rest of Sam.

"Sorry," Sam tells the room, juggling several McDonald's bags, "got held up at the intersection, six car pileup –" he stops talking abruptly, eyes huge in his face.

Dean turns away from the screen and looks at him. Not much change there - Sam looks about the same as before, which makes sense, since he wasn't actually out that long. Maybe Sam's hair's a bit longer, though, and it doesn't seem as though the guy had bothered to shave much since Dean was… out.

He clears his throat. "Hey," he says, awkwardly.

"Dean," Sam breathes, and promptly drops everything on the table. Before Dean knows it he has an armful of Sam clutching him tight. "Thank God," he breathes into Dean's ear, grip tightening even more. "Thank God you're okay."

His eyes find Bobby's, then tear themselves away.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Thank God for that."

* * *

_A/N: Otherwise known as the Bobby talks Dean's ears off chapter. Anyway. I got to say, much as I enjoyed writing this chapter, this feels a lot more... visceral, than I thought it would. Kind of affected me more than I thought. Might need to get some air now._

_Can someone tell me if Bobby's in character here? I love the man, but it's been a long time since I've written him. And, you know, let me know what you think of the chapter in general. :) _

_Three things: _

_1. I can't say Bobby's way of handling Dean is strictly the healthiest, and no, I don't advocate repressing painful memories and being okay just because other people need you to be. So yes, I'm well aware of the flaws here._

_2. I don't know how clear it is, but since I haven't decided whether to touch on the topic again I'm going to cheat here a little. So yes, Dean/not Dean was in hell for decades, possibly centuries, and yes, he spent most of that time being something... else, and surrounded by the very souls he once tortured._

_3. No, Dean still doesn't know who he is. I realize that may be very frustrating for some of you, but trust me, there is a reason I'm stretching it out for so long and yes, there will be an answer forthcoming, possibly pretty soon if I get it down right. Though, does Dean need all his memories to be Dean? Does someone living as Dean need Dean's memories to be Dean? Another question for the philosophers._

_...Well, that was depressing. I should probably find a way to work the pony back in._


	28. the one I will become

_A/N: Anyone still reading? This is where it gets messy. Messier, anyway._

* * *

Being a man is great.

So's being a woman, probably, but for better or worse Dean doesn't have much experience with that. He'd always suspected boobs were even more fun to have than to hold, but that will have to stay a passing fancy.

The best thing about being a man, besides the obvious anatomical feature, is how much you can get away with not saying. Also better aerodynamics. And maybe the whole not menstruating thing. But the main best part is really the way society expects certain things of men. Social conventions, if you will.

(Or maybe social trappings, depending on how you look at it, except that way of looking is also definitely the wrong way.)

For example. If a woman cries, anyone and everyone better get on figuring out why the fuck she's crying and how to fucking make it better, and whether anyone needs a fucking punch in the gut. And sure, maybe some rampant sexism makes it in there and renders the whole thing dubiously chivalrous, but making a woman not cry is the very basics of not being a total asshole. Bro Code 101.

If a man cries, though… well, a man doesn't cry, for one thing. Still, in the extreme and unlikely scenario a man does happen to shed a single manly tear in a semi-public area, most people tend to pretty much just look at their feet and inch away.

Far, far away.

This has no bearing whatsoever on Dean's life, of course, because Dean is after all a man. (Probably.) It does mean, however, that Bobby manages to leave southern Oklahoma without another fucked up heart-to-heart with Dean (though he does try, bless him), and Sam is left none the wiser about what Dean may or may not remember about a particularly trying time in his life.

Before his life.

Whatever.

It works out fine, is the point.

"You're sure you're okay?"

Or it _would _work out fine, if Sam wasn't Sam.

That is to say, a giant girl.

"Dude. I'm driving, aren't I?"

"That's not - that doesn't exactly mean anything, Dean."

"Doesn't it, Sam?" Dean says. "Doesn't it?"

Sam keeps sounding particularly unconvinced. "Because we could – we could go hang out at Bobby's, you know, take some time off."

And yeah, spending his remaining time on earth in Sioux Falls? That is like the last thing he wants to do, no offense to Bobby. Not to mention that there is sort of an apocalypse going on. "That's okay, I'm good."

"And if anything… I mean, you can talk to me, you know that, right."

He tries really, really hard not to roll his eyes. "Yes, Sam, thank you."

"And, and you were right, back then, I didn't – I didn't really try, but if you, if you want, I can – I'll look up some people, see if we can get you your memories back –"

"_No –_" Dean says quickly, then clears his throat. "No. Told you, I'm good. We're good. Let's let bygones be bygones, huh?"

And that, let's be honest, is a completely awesome, gracious suggestion on Dean's part considering everything, but Sam doesn't seem very delighted or relieved. Which is odd since, after all, the whole let-my-amnesiac-brother-stay-conveniently-amnesiac was Sam's idea in the first place. "But I thought… isn't that why you –"

Oh. "Yeah, sorry, changed my mind. How about we let my memories come back the all-natural way? That sounds like a good plan." That sounds like an _excellent _plan.

...And now Sam looks upset. "You don't want to remember?"

No, no Sam, he wants to say, I don't want to remember, I'd rather not be rocking myself in the corner or stare vacantly into space or force you to tie me up so I don't hurt myself. If it's all the same to you, not remembering sounds _great_.

"It's not that," he evades, trying not to wince. He keeps his gaze steady on the road and really wishes Sam hadn't picked a small confined space to feeling-ambush him in. "It's just… dude, no offense, but I've kind of had enough of memories to last me a while."

"I'm not talking about hell," Sam says, and Dean's so awesome he doesn't even flinch. "I mean the memories from before."

He raises a pretty skeptical eyebrow. "You can't pick and choose what I remember, Sam. It's not exactly picking something out of the bargain bin."

"There has to be a way," the guy says stubbornly, pouting and crossing his arms like a five year old. Because that's what Sam defaults to when his huge brain encounters something it can't handle. Sulking.

"Let me know if you find it," Dean says, rolling his eyes, thinking privately it's a fine time Sam's picked to find a crusade. "And actually, how about you also let me know what the hell you were thinking when you got us off angel radar with magical gift bags, you douche."

"Hex bags," Sam says, and shifts in his seat.

He frowns. "Hex bags?" he repeats. "Like the things that almost killed us in Halloween Town?"

"You should really stop calling it that."

"Sam."

A sigh. "Yeah. They – they're multipurpose. Ruby taught me ones that ward off angels."

His forehead wrinkles almost on its own as he shoots Sam a quizzical glance. "What on earth goes into angel bug spray?"

"Chicken bones, goofer dust, lavender, myrrh, and a rosary blessed by a priest," Sam tells him blandly, and then adds, "And spider eggs. Can't forget the spider eggs."

He scrunches up his nose. "Okay, sorry I asked. Anyway, feel free to go ahead and splurge with some answers."

"I just…" Sam sighs. "Look, I told you I didn't trust them."

"Oh come on, man!" he says incredulously. "Not this again! How many times do they have to frickin' save our ass before you believe me that they're okay?"

"Cas is okay," Sam says, somewhat grudgingly. "Which is why I got rid of the hex bags."

Dean frowns at the scenic Midwestern countryside. "I – wait, was he here? I mean, not _here_ here, but… back then here?" He thinks he recalls seeing a trench coat at some point, but everything's pretty blurry.

Though he does remember... well. Enough.

The other hunter closes his eyes. "Yeah, I – we called him for help."

He has to look over at that. "You mean you prayed to Cas? You?"

"Yeah." Sam doesn't appear all that thrilled about it.

"Wow." He's quiet for a moment, awed. Sam prayed for him, that's so… weird. "So, uh, what did he do?"

"I'm not really sure, actually," Sam says, sounding kinda miffed, honestly. "He sort of… went inside your head? I think. You were less…" he pauses, swallows. "You were better afterwards."

Dean doesn't know what to say to that. Doesn't in any way, shape or form want to know what 'better' means.

So instead he clears his throat and changes the subject. "Right, anyway, just… talk to me before you use those again, okay. You want us to work together, you gotta give me some say in what's going on."

"Yeah," Sam says. "I… I won't do it again, I promise."

Hope not, Dean thinks somewhat cynically, but Sam does look like he means it.

At least right this second.

Which is exactly when a thought strikes him, and it steals his breath away. "Hey, uh, Sam?" he says when he gets it back. "How… how long did you say you used the hex bags for?"

He feels Sam send him an odd look. "Dunno, a couple of weeks? Since we started the werewolf hunt. Why?"

Hahaha. Right.

"No reason."

Motherfucker.

0000

They drive for a while, stopping only to refuel. Sam doesn't ask where they're going, which is great, since Dean's only goal is to put as much distance between them and hell-motel as humanly possible.

After a while, though, even Dean notices Sam's jaw-cracking yawns.

Oops. "Sorry dude," he says, flicking his eyes to Sam's, which blink open sullenly. "We'll drop anchor at the next motel, promise."

"'Bout time," Sam mutters, twisting himself again in a pretty uncomfortable-looking version of the fetal position, left cheek squashed against the headrest and mouth slackly falling open.

"Actually," someone else interjects, "I'd prefer it if you pulled over here."

Dean nearly wrenches the Impala off the road.

"What the fuck, Cas!" he yells, yanking back on the wheel, while Sam screams shrilly, "Where the hell did you _come from_?!"

A couple of terrifying, heart-stopping seconds later, once everyone (read: the humans) catches their breath and is somewhat sure they're not about to meet the Flying Spaghetti Monster in the sky, Dean jerks the car to a stop on the side of the road.

"Cas," he gasps, glaring at the rearview mirror, "you _have _to work on your timing."

"Please don't ever do that again," Sam adds.

"I'm sorry," the angel says, which Dean takes to mean _same time tomorrow?_

"Don't be sorry," he snaps, "just try harder not to kill us." He pauses. "…Unless that is what you're going for, and in that case good job, I guess."

"Not at the moment," Castiel replies, which isn't all that reassuring. "Dean, if I may have a word outside."

"Uh." Suddenly it hits him that this guy hadn't only seen him… like that, but had also been in his freaking mind. Which, wow, awkward. He drops his eyes. "No thanks, I'm good."

He can practically feel the laser-gaze on the back of his head. "It's important."

Why can't anyone ever believe he's good? "Can it wait?" For like, _after_ he's had some time to hunt and drink and sex away the horrors in his head.

"No. It's important."

Funny how he can already tell he's not going to like this.

"What's so important that I can't hear it?" Sam asks, turning around to glower at Castiel. Sam's a great not-brother. Definitely a keeper.

"Something important, obviously," Cas replies pissily, which at any other time would be hilarious, but maybe not when Dean's actively trying to avoid one-on-one time with the guy. "Dean," he says, and his voice is closer now to Dean's ear, like he's leaning forward. "I am trying to be tactful and respect your privacy, but my patience is not endless and I am short on time."

"If you really respected my privacy you'd move back a couple of feet," Dean says, inching away, and maybe that's why it comes out sounding nervous instead of self-possessed and charming like his quips usually are. "Look," he says, annoyed with himself, "just tell us what you want."

"I…" Castiel starts, and sighs the kind of sigh that doesn't bode anyone any good. "We require your aid."

He steals a covert glance at Sam. "What kind of aid are we talking about? Because I've, uh, been pretty helpful."

"And we're taking some time off," Sam puts in. "We've kind of earned it."

Dean forgets to be circumspect in favor of frowning at him outright. "What are you talking about? We're not taking time off, Sam, we've gone over this this."

"We've been driving nowhere for ten hours straight, Dean," the other hunter retorts. "Yeah, it's not how I want to spend a vacation, but I'd call it time off, wouldn't you?"

"What? That doesn't count," Dean says indignantly. "And you're not supposed to talk about it, Sam, there's a code, what the hell kind of man are you?"

"The kind that really needs a bathroom!"

"Who's stopping you? Go in the woods!"

"Maybe I would if you'd actually bothered to stop anytime in the past two hours!"

Oh. That is a good point. "Well," he says, "why didn't you say something?"

"Because you were in such a good mood!" Sam snaps. Then runs a hand through his hair and mutters, a little softer, "Not that I blame you."

"Ah. Um, thanks," Dean says. "Sorry I was a dick."

"It's okay."

"I'm sure this is very touching," Castiel says - or actually more like growls, which is kind of intimidating to be perfectly honest. "But heaven needs your skills and like I said, Dean, I am low on time."

"What skills does he have that I don't?" Sam asks, rolling his eyes in Dean's direction, as if to say _who's this guy kidding?_

Dean swallows and says faintly, "Yeah, what skills," and tries to not look like he might swoon like a dainty Victorian damsel, even if it is really tempting.

"The ones you acquired in hell."

Really, really tempting.

0000

"What are you talking about?" Sam exclaims, and then turns to Dean. "Dude, what is he – crap, Dean, you okay?"

"Fine," he manages, and gets out, "Need air, stay here, bye," before fleeing the Impala.

He comes to a stop by the treeline a couple of minutes later and breathes hard, hands on his knees.

"I tried to warn you," Cas says, materializing next to him.

Dean is so done with that shit. "What the hell, Cas," he says raggedly, bracing against a tree trunk. The bark is rough and comforting under his hand, reminds him that he's here, not… somewhere else. "That's not a warning, that's – that was ambiguous. And then really not ambiguous."

"I no longer have time for games."

"And I don't have any skills, so get another guy."

"Seven angels have been murdered."

He glances up, stricken. "What? I thought – I didn't know that could even happen."

"Apparently it can." Castiel's expression darkens. "We don't know how. Or who." He meets Dean's eyes. "They were from my garrison. They were my brothers and sisters, my companions in battle. And someone has murdered them."

"Fuck," Dean says feelingly.

"Yes. Which is why I need you to –"

"Hey, no, wait a fucking second," he cuts in, frowning. "Are you – are you okay? Are they after you too?"

Castiel looks at him for a moment, as if weighing Dean's sincerity. His shoulders slump slightly. "I'm not sure," he admits. "On either count."

"Shit. Okay, what do you need?"

The angel straightens and walks a bit further on, distancing himself from Dean. "We have someone in custody. A demon. High ranking."

"Great," Dean says. "They should be able to name your trigger man."

A nod. "Except he refuses to talk."

"Then just make him –" he starts to say, when it dawns on him. He feels himself whiten. "No. No way."

"Dean, this is something for which only you are qualified."

"Quali-" he chokes on the word, stumbles back. "This has got to be a joke, I'm not – I don't even remember –"

"You do," Castiel says. "I've been in your mind. You remember all of it."

"But I – I can't, Castiel, I was – I was forced to," he says, desperately quoting Bobby. "I didn't – I didn't want to do it, I swear –"

"I know, Dean." The angel is suddenly closer, his bright eyes latched on Dean's with a hint of sympathy, and maybe regret. "There's no need to convince me. I know who you are."

His back suddenly hits a tree, and as if on a signal his legs crumples down lifelessly. He looks up at Castiel. "If you're – if you're really my friend. You won't make me do this."

"I am your friend," Cas says, towering over Dean, even though he has never looked less the part. "And I wouldn't ask this lightly. But we need you, and no one else can take your place."

He swallows. "I can't. You won't – you won't like what comes out."

The angel crouches on one knee in front of him. "You turned your back on it once," he says more softly. "You can do it again."

"It wasn't a choice, you asshole!" Weakness, maybe.

Cas shakes his head. Gently he tells Dean, "You keep underestimating yourself."

"I keep wanting to not torture people," he returns, glaring. "So thanks but no thanks, Cas, you can go back to heaven and tell them to fuck off."

"Dean," Castiel starts, when someone interrupts him.

"He doesn't want what you're selling, you son of a bitch. Get away from him!"

They both turn to gape at the floppy haired giant currently bearing down on them like a gigantic miniature poodle.

"What," Sam snaps at Dean, "you really thought I'd stay in the car?"

"N-no?" he says faintly, because yeah, that was pretty dumb. He wets his lips. "Um Sam, did you – how much did you hear –"

"_Enough_," Cas growls, and puts two fingers to Dean's forehead.

0000

Dean is retching in the corner when Cas hands him a glass of water. "I hate you," he mutters, but takes it anyway. He wipes his mouth on a sleeve.

Stupid teleportation.

"You humor him too much. Finally going soft, Captain?"

Cas shakes his head. "He deserves better from us, Uriel. We are asking the unforgivable."

The other angel looks immovable, like a slab of concrete. "What needs be done must be done," he says, sounding like he's reciting something from memory. "It isn't for us to question."

"No," Cas sighs. "Sometimes, however, I admit I see the temptation."

"No one likes this," Uriel says. "But it's for the greater good."

Dean raises his head to glare at them. "Lesser good is right here, you jerks. Stop talking about me like I'm a piece of furniture."

Uriel glances at him, the corner of his mouth raised as if in a held-back smile. "Stubborn, isn't he?" he remarks to Castiel. "I see why you like him."

"It's entertaining," the worst friend in the world admits. "…And occasionally infuriating."

"You're occasionally infuriating," Dean mutters, and rises to his feet.

"Have you given it any more thought?" Cas asks.

"Are you asking whether I'm finally feeling up to torturing someone? Because if that's the question, the answer is no I'm not, Cas, no I'm not."

"Angels are dying, boy," Uriel hisses.

_So am I, _Dean thinks. "Suck a bag of dicks," he suggests diplomatically.

"You –" Uriel starts, when Castiel cuts him off with a gesture like the badass he is not.

"Uriel, give us a moment."

Uriel glances between the two of them and sighs, looking a bit less of a jerk and somewhat more like a put-upon football coach. "I think I'll go seek revelation," he says. "See if we have any further orders."

"Right," Dean says slowly, and then shrugs. "Bring back some donuts, okay?"

Uriel actually laughs this time. It almost makes him look not like a dick. "You've got guts, I'll give you that," he says, and fades into the air.

Dean raises an eyebrow at the only angel left in the room. "So," he questions, "was that a no on the donuts?"

Castiel just looks at him.

He takes the opportunity to stare somewhere else - like the ceiling, which is gray and… dripping with something, ew. "No, because seriously," he says, "I'm starving."

"Dean," Castiel says, and there's this something extra in his voice this time, something heavy, wounded, and Dean suddenly can't help looking back at him. The angel looks weary, tattered, and not like he's up to handling a lot of bullshit.

His throat tightens. He swallows, looks away again. Stops dicking around. "I don't want to do this, Cas. You don't want me to do this."

"I don't," Cas agrees. "You may not believe me, but… I am your friend. And I would give anything not to have you do this."

After a moment, Dean glances at the angel.

"What needs be done, huh?" he asks.

Cas looks pained. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"Yeah," he says. "Me too."

0000

There's a person – demon – chained to a Star of David in the middle of the room. On the floor is what Dean assumes is a big-ass devil's trap, though he doesn't really recognize any of the markings - doesn't know if even Bobby would know how to read them.

"What, we're suddenly Jewish now?" he mutters to Castiel, peering through the window. It feels a little ridiculous, but he needs to know what he's getting himself into. "Because I haven't really brushed up on my Kabbalah."

Cas ignores him. "It will hold him for as long as we need it to."

"It had better, or seriously, I'm blaming you." He twists away from the door, frowning at the angel. "Um. So I'm gonna need, uh, supplies."

"Everything you might want is inside."

"Okay." He wonders who made that trip to the grocery store. (This is so fucked up.) "We got a name for this demon?"

Castiel's shoulders sink a little in the slightest almost invisible flinch.

Something cold roils through Dean's insides. He shakes it off, scowling. "Spit it out, Cas."

The angel turns to face the wall, as if he can't bear to see Dean's face right now. Which is frigging funny, considering what Dean's about to do for him.

"Cas," he says. "What is it."

The angel exhales quietly. "Lilith's right hand man. Alistair."

At first Dean jerks instinctively, but then his body stills, freezes over. His eyes slide back to the steel door, back to the window and the devil lying beyond it.

His hands slowly curl into fists.

"Oh, that guy," he says. "We've met."

* * *

_A/N: Hooray talking? Plot progression? Sam and Castiel and Uriel?_

_I was *this* close to replacing Alistair with another demon, just for the wow factor. Except no one else really made sense at this point (Meg's gone, Crowley's pretty weak, and also I like them too much) and besides, he's just the guy you love to hate._

_You might notice I adopted some lines from the episode. Sorry about that, rehashing episodes is really not my cup of tea - but sometimes it has to be done. For the plot! (Hooray plot!)_

_I had this realization after the season eight finale, when I suddenly realized that SPN is this guilty pleasure I like but no longer love. I'm not sure when exactly it happened - probably season five or six - but it's strange to think that once I used to daily scour the web for good stories, when now I just stick to the Show and mostly forget about it afterwards. I think it's because of all the plotholes and plotlines being dropped - single episodes can be written well, but the overarching plot of a season is usually... somewhat loose. And characterization kind of falls by the wayside, a lot. I'm still waiting to find out why Dean's eyes bled in the Bloody Mary episode. Just saying._

_Not that I disliked this season in any way whatsoever - I actually liked it a lot more than seasons... I don't know, 5-6-7. Which I barely remember. But this finale kind of came out of nowhere - I liked the Crowley thing, liked the Sam thing (wow, when we realize just how much he didn't care about making the sacrifice play, that actually hurt on a season 1-3 level - and yes, that is the Sammy I love), the Kevin thing, liked the falling angel CGI... but it kind of seemed like a hastily conjured-up reason to stop them from closing the door to hell. I just... didn't feel invested. It didn't really feel like a season finale._

_So I don't know. I'm going to watch season 9, of course. But unless strange and great things happen, the Obeisance of Memory might actually be my last SPN story. __I'm not really sure what to think about that._

_Well, that was gloomy. Anyway, let me know what you think! About this story, I mean, though Show opinions are welcome as well. How's Dean? Castiel? I swear, his character's so hard to get right... _

_Please review, and a happy hiatus to all! :)_


	29. fears and chains

_A/N: And we're off. Apologies in advance, this is not a kid-friendly chapter._

* * *

You can't just rush into this kind of thing. If there's anything he's learned down below, it's that you gotta always have a plan going in.

"As I live and breathe. Is that little Dean Winchester?"

They'll try to get under your skin. Beg for mercy. Scream their revenge. Anything to twist your thoughts around, to make you doubt yourself, make you make mistakes. Make you get up and close with the worst of you.

"Well, well. I didn't think there was enough of you to make it upstairs. Lemme tell you, never been so glad to be wrong."

And you can't let them. Which is why you better know the worst of you better than anyone else. Or you can just shut them up – that works too.

"I miss our old games, don't you? Did you miss me?"

...Though here that'd be pretty counterproductive, considering what he's trying to accomplish.

"We had so much fun."

He picks out a scalpel. Cliché, maybe, but efficient. The brute work is for the beginning. Gotta show them you're not messing around. After most of the skin is stripped off, tender nerve endings exposed, a single touch is like passing a kidney stone.

And then the real work begins.

"Hey," he says, his back to the demon, frowning up as he puts the scalpel to the light. It seems sharp enough, - which isn't enough for him usually, but oh well. He doesn't really feel like testing it on himself. "Is your human still alive?"

The grin is practically audible. "Thanks to me. Why, wanna talk to him? He's a pediatrician. Johnny never took you to those, did he?"

He blinks down at the table full of assorted 'supplies,' surprised, then shrugs. "Sure, why not," he says. "Bring him up."

It's almost frightening, how much of a difference it makes, how much of a difference there is between a man and a demon. All of a sudden the room feels lighter, less suffocating – Dean's shoulders relax against their will, like some instinct had set them loose.

He turns, sees terrified blue eyes looking back at him, tracking his every move.

"What's your name?" he asks, taking a small step forward. He doesn't want to startle the man more than he has to.

The man swallows, forehead beading with sweat, hands pulling on the restraints. "Marshall," he replies, staring at the blade in Dean's hand. "Marshall Appleton."

He memorizes the name, puts it away in a little mental file cabinet to haunt him later. "Okay, Doc," he says, soothing. "You got any idea what's going on here? Do I need to catch you up?"

Appleton jerks his head from side to side. "I- I know," he answers, trembling.

"Do you know who's killing the angels?"

"No, he – he didn't show me, I don't know." His eyes glimmer with tears. "Can you get it out? Please, I want to go home, my wife, my kids, they don't know what happened to me, they're probably worried – it's my little girl's birthday –"

He sighs quietly. "Doc," he says, and takes another step, "I really, really wish I could do that. You've no idea how much I want to exorcise this son of a bitch out of you. I wish I could let you go."

"The – the things I did, it wasn't me, I swear, it wasn't me –"

He keeps his face hard. "I know, Doc. Trust me, I know."

"Then please, please let me go, I just want to go home," the man pleads, and the tears finally fall free and slide down his face, one by one.

"You can never go home," Dean tells him, heart twisting. He's the worst person in the world. "You're already dead."

Appleton looks more terrified by the second. "What? No, please, I'll – I'll pay you, you can have my share of the practice – you can have anything you want –"

"Sorry, Doc," he says gently, and brings up the scalpel to the man's bare chest. "You don't have anything I want."

0000

It's not very long before the sobs abruptly fade. It's just a moment, no discernible change between one second and the next, but suddenly it's like new shadows slink behind Appleton's eyes, someone else looking out from his face. The lights flicker, and just like that, Doc's gone.

Which is fine by Dean – that was just to prove a point.

"Ooh-hoo," Alistair says. "Didn't think you had it in you. That was cold. And I know cold."

"You sure do," Dean says distractedly, peering at the knee. Delicate work, pulling apart the joint. He starts at the surface.

Alistair grins at the ceiling. "Upstanding guy, Appleton. Straight shoot for heaven. Good father, excellent doctor. Loved kids." He winks down at Dean. "Maybe a little too much, if you know what I mean."

Dean always knows what he means. He also knows demons enjoy twisting the truth. "Right."

"What's with the sour face, I'm just telling you about the man. I mean, you barely had a chance to get to know him before you started tearing him apart."

He doesn't think that merits a response. Doesn't know what he'd say to that, anyway.

"Mmm-mm. Feels just like old times, doesn't it? My little role reversal aside."

"Uh huh."

"You're so rusty. How long's it been since the last time you practiced?" the demon asks. "Time's so funny down there, I get all confused."

He shrugs as he leans back on his heels, thinking how best to approach this. Can't make mistakes.

This has to be perfect.

Laughter. "Look at you hesitating. You really don't want to do this, do ya. Guess once you break, you really do break. All the Sammys in the world can't put Humpty Dumpty together again."

He makes the first cut. "Shut it," he says, then curses himself. That was a mistake.

The demon growls at the pain, but recovers quickly. "That's my boy," he says fondly, and Dean knows just how the smirk is spreading across his face, like a disease. "An insult to the ego and you're like butter in my hands. That's right, cut away, boy. Don't just sit there," he hisses, "_participate_ –"

He pushes a little harder. Gotta make up lost ground.

He needs not to listen.

"You think I don't know pain?" Alistair asks him. His body vibrates with his laughter, makes it a little harder to work. "I know everything there is to know about pain. I _taught_ you pain. You're gonna have to try a little harder."

Blood pools under his fingers, starts sliding down the shin. He hopes Castiel thought to bring him towels, he can't see properly like this. "Yeah, I know."

He feels the calculating gaze pass over his face. "You used to be more chatty at work, love. I miss your voice."

"Me too," he mutters under his breath. Monologuing, There's one thing he didn't miss about hell.

"But you kneeling on the floor, that brings back memories all on its own. Lovely, lovely memories…"

He doesn't move, except to cut larger and larger swathes of skin.

That brings out a scream, and then a breathless laugh. "We've done much worse things to each other than this, boy. This is barely first date material." An audible smile. "Not that this is our first tango, is it? Not by far."

His hand slips by a hair. He barely avoids cutting a finger.

"Oh? Did that get to you? Should have planned this out better, darlin'. Height discrepancy, easy for them to forget who's boss. Rookie mistake."

Don't let them get to you. The plan is fine.

"Maybe you need some reeducatin'. I'd be happy to –" Alistair cuts off.

There's a silence, for much too long than Dean is comfortable with.

He looks up. Sees the cold, humorless eyes peering down at him, eyebrows furled as if in bafflement. It's a strange look on him of all people, but Dean doesn't notice it much, because it's the first time their gazes have met since… since a long time ago.

He tries not to shudder, reel from the scenes of carnage playing in his head. He doesn't remember, exactly, but still he… he knows. He's seen these eyes before.

"Something wrong?" he asks.

And they stare into him now, boring holes into his soul, pitting him up against some unknown standard. These eyes have seen him at his worst. At his best.

No one else in the world knows him so well.

"They tore you apart, darlin'," Alistair says, frowning down at him. "Who did that?"

He scowls back. "Dunno what you're talking about."

"Don't you? You're a dead man walking. I'm surprised you can even talk, let alone remember who you are." He pauses. "Unless… have you been pretending, all this time?"

His throat tightens. "I know who I am."

Suddenly Alistair smiles. "No, you don't," he purrs. "But humor me – who do you think that is?"

He clutches his scalpel, hard, and snarls, "The guy who's gonna make you squeal."

There's a silence, then. A silence as though Alistair is contemplating how true that is, as if he's wondering if that's really a possibility, hell's master torturer being broken. He's wondering if Dean is up to it. Wondering if Dean can do it.

Dean doesn't wonder. He knows he can.

"My darling boy," the demon murmurs at last. "Now we're in _business_."

0000

The first instinct is to feel pride – then, disgust.

He carefully doesn't show either.

Alistair notices. "Oh, don't play the ice queen with me, son, I can see past that pretty brave face of yours. You really think you're – you really think you're a hero?" A snarl as Dean twists his blade. "Please. You're enjoying every last bit of this."

Wow. What a totally unpredictable and not cliché turn in the conversation. "Not really," he says.

"Of course you are," the demon returns. "You should see the smile on your face."

He's not smiling. He'd feel it if he is.

…He thinks.

"Love that smile. I'd like to see more of it."

He presses harder, hoping to shut him up, but Alistair just starts singing instead.

"A smile was all you gave to me," he trills. "Before we were as happy as could be, la la, la la, la la la la."

"Oh my God," he mutters under his breath.

A pause in the singing. "You've got no appreciation for the classics, you know," Alistair tells him. "That was your one biggest flaw. Otherwise, you were such a lovely little student. So much potential. Such attention to detail. Made me proud, watching you at it."

He reaches and swipes a towel from the table, wipes down the knife. It glints red in the fluorescent light. "Glad you enjoyed."

"Oh, I did, son. And so did you. Look at you, even now demonstrating proper knife etiquette. Like riding a bike. You can't get enough of this."

"Just doing what's necessary," Dean says, coming back. He tears off the skin covering the kneecap – finally, that took way too long. "Feel like coughing up some answers yet?"

"Necessary?" Alistair repeats, ignoring the question. _Need to go further_, Dean realizes. "I think not. You're liking this."

"It is a dream come true," he intones absently. He delicately pulls at a ligament. The foot spasms.

Alistair growls in pain. "Funny boy," he breathes. "I will teach you to fear closing your eyes."

"No, seriously. I think I actually had a dream just like this once." He sighs wistfully. "It was such," he slices, "_such_ a good dream."

A scream. It lasts a while.

"Yeouch," he says, raising an eyebrow. "Easy on the ears."

"Fuck you," Alistair spits.

He can't help a laugh. "There we go, darlin'," he says, sprinkling salt over the open wound – just like he planned. Alistair shrieks, and he smirks. "You're finally getting the point."

0000

_What am I doing?_

The thought drifts in his mind, like a soap bubble on the breeze.

There are screams, though he's long since tuned them out. His ears ache from the proximity, throb faintly along with his heartbeat.

He glances at his hands, wet with blood and sweat; he must have cut himself at one point – he's usually cleaner than this.

_What am I doing?_

Dr. Appleton's face is twisted with pain and mindless rage. Oh. He's the one yelling.

And he's yelling because, because…

_Don't remember? Don't remember? We used to be yours -_

Dean throws himself away from the hextacle.

___You turned your back on it once. You can do it again._

Shit. _Shit._

Alistair is sneering at him, mouth dripping with blood. "If we could we'd kill all the angels, not just a measly seven." He spits at Dean's feet. "And I would personally butcher every single miserable human to walk this sewer of a planet."

Dean can't help staring at him, at the mockery he's made of the doctor's chest, the doctor's legs.

(The art.)

He tears his eyes off the blood, the visible... meat. He weaves his way unsteadily to the table, gets down on his knees and throws up everything his stomach has to offer.

"What's wrong?" Alistair rasps. "You were doing so well."

Dean's hand covers his mouth, shaking, and he stumbles to a stand, almost trips as he darts to the locked door. "Cas," he whispers desperately, and hits the iron slab over and over with the flat of his fist.

The demon watches him at it. "When I get my hands on you," it promises, "you will regret every moment of your existence."

Dean ignores him, heart in his throat. "Cas!" he screams. "Cas! Let me out!"

"We will start again. All over again."

"Let me out!"

"And no one will save you."

"_Cas!_"

"What?" Castiel asks from behind him.

Dean whirls around, grasps the sleeve of the trench coat. It's blessedly solid and – and real. "Cas," he chokes. "Cas, you gotta get me out of here, I – I went too far, I can't do it, I can't do it –"

The familiar face glances down at the stained hand grabbing the coat, then peers at him expressionlessly; Dean suddenly remembers that angels are so very far from human. "Did you obtain any answers?"

"He doesn't know," Dean replies. "Okay? He doesn't know anything. Now please, I – can we, can we leave, I have to get out of here –"

The blue gaze flickers to the demon's, barely seem to flinch at the awful sight. "Are you sure?"

"It's torture, you asshole," he snaps, his knuckles white as they clutch harder to Castiel. "I'm as sure as anyone can be."

Castiel almost turns stonier, if that's possible. "I asked if you were sure."

He gapes, uncomprehending. "Cas, I just told you, there's –"

The shorter angel almost looms over him, eyes glinting dangerously in the artificial light as they pin Dean down. "The truth, Dean. Which demon did it? How did they do it?"

"It wasn't a demon," he says. "He would have told me."

"That's impossible," Castiel growls at him. "He must have fooled you!"

"I am pretty good at foolin'," Alistair chimes in helpfully.

The fuse in Dean's head shortens and splutters out – before exploding. "You son of a bitch," he says slowly, in disbelief. "After all I've done for you. This is how you repay me?"

"It must be a lie, Dean, that's the only explanation. It makes no sense otherwise."

He lets the angel go, takes a couple of steps back. "If you didn't even trust me, if you can't even believe what I tell you, why'd you have me do it?"

Castiel blinks at him, as if something new suddenly attracted his notice. "Of course I trust you," he replies.

But Dean's not listening. "You're right," he realizes aloud. "It doesn't make sense - none of it does. You're angels, you're freaking all-powerful, so why would you – why would you need a human to do your dirty work? Unless..." he trails off, hands falling slack to his sides as he feels the blood leave his head. "Unless you didn't need me. Unless you didn't need me at all."

"No," the angel protests. "No, that's not –"

Bile rises up his throat. He stumbles until he reaches the table. "Oh my God," he whispers, staring down blankly at the bloodied tools – the goddamn supplies. "I handed you my sanity on a goddamn platter."

He shouldn't have agreed. It wasn't worth this. Nothing is worth this.

"Dean –"

He straightens, face hardening. "Get me out of here," he says quietly, his every word rigid and brittle. "And then leave me the fuck alone. We're done." He turns, meets the angel's confused gaze evenly. "I don't ever want to see you again."

"Dean," Castiel starts saying, and then his eyes widen. "_Dean!_"

Dean barely has a chance to frown bewilderedly before he's lifted off his feet.

By his neck.

"You should talk to your plumber," Alistair purrs in his ear.

His head meets the wall, and for a moment – he doesn't know how long – the world disappears.

0000

He comes back to himself with a cough and a groan, puts his hands to his bleeding forehead. It hurts.

Alistair is chuckling in the background. "So you're the prick he's cheating on me with?" he drawls. "You ain't that pretty."

"I don't understand," Dean hears Castiel mutter to himself. "How did you break free?"

"Hm, good question. Seems I have friends in high places."

Dean stumbles to his feet. His head feels funny. He nearly falls, catches himself on the table.

Noises. Fighting. He has to save Cas.

Breathless: "What does that mean?"

"Figure it out, you goddamn dinosaur."

Someone screams.

Castiel.

His hands grasp along the table, settle on a hook and a pry bar. He throws the hook and comes at Alistair with the pry bar, but the demon barely seems to acknowledge it except to throw his hand out and force Dean back to the floor.

"Like roaches, you two. Now, I really, really wish I knew how to kill you, but I suppose I'll settle for sending you back to heaven. When you find out how whoever it is did it, lemme know, okay? Sharing is caring, and all that."

The world's a blur. He stares at the ceiling. It's flickering blue.

Maybe he deserves this.

"Bye-bye."

No, he definitely deserves this.

"Now as for you, my dear."

A hand grabs his jacket, heaves him up.

"You're just so precious, I want to take you with me. Why waste all that potential, I say."

His head rattles to the side. He coughs.

"What do you think, if you die you'll go back to hell? Heaven won't take you now, I'm pretty sure. Not after what you did to poor Dr. Appleton."

It's getting hard to breathe.

"Or maybe I shouldn't take the chance? Hm? Speak up, darlin', I'd like to hear your opinion. My goonies should be here any moment now, better let me know before they have a turn at you."

He's not too clear on what happens. Maybe he blacks out. All he knows is that between one second and the next Alistair must have let him go, because he's suddenly on the ground, breathing with his nose against cement.

"Oho, what's this? A two for one deal? Sorry, bucko, you're not really my type."

He turns his head, licks his lips. Struggles to sit up, prop himself against the wall.

"Really, kid? You think you can send me back? You, with your paltry parlor tricks, you think you can send me back?"

"I think I can kill you."

"Please. I don't care how much juice you got, you're not nearly strong –" a strangled yell. Someone's being choked. Dean recognizes the signs.

A flash of light.

"Aren't I?"

0000

Dean's head is drooping forward, legs laid out lifelessly in front of him.

He stares at them blankly. They don't quite look like they belong anywhere.

Not to him, at least.

"Dean? You okay?"

Dean. That's him.

He struggles to move his head.

"No, no, come on, please be okay –"

There's a fuzzy shadow crouching over him. It looks like a large man with long brown hair and big eyes, almost recognizable but for the blood smeared around his mouth.

There's blood smeared around his mouth.

_Something leaks into his mouth_, _tasting of copper –_

Dean can't breathe.

"What, why are you –" the man starts to ask, and then stops. The man swallows, slowly puts a hand to his chin, looks down at it as it comes back a bright bright crimson.

The man's face turns pale. He looks up again, meeting Dean's eyes.

They stare at each other.

"...Shit," Sam says.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks again so much to all the reviewers/readers from the last chapter. I just realized this fic is over a hundred thousand words... which is exhausting, and so much more than I thought it would reach! You guys deserve all the applause for making it this far - and for bothering to keep going. :) I have no words, except to let you know that I really, really appreciate it._

_So that came... a lot earlier than expected. Again. For some reason I thought this scene would be harder to write, but nope, turns out the Alistair in my head is pretty damn vocal. Just to warn you guys, I have a final coming up, and until that's over and dealt with this fic will be in the backburner._

_So. Thoughts? Was Alistair evil enough? Dean evil enough?_

_When I first saw the promos for Dean torturing Alistair, I was pretty disgusted/disappointed with the turn of events - because Dean torturing again, out of his own free will, seemed to be an anathema to his character (I'm not sure if I disagree with that, even now). Then the actual episode changed my mind - I actually kind of liked the way they handled it. Or maybe the vast quantities of hurt!Dean was enough to appease me, I'm not sure. But I have to say that in terms of torturer Dean... well, I was somewhat let down. Ackles is a great actor, but when he plays bad (except for in the djinn episode, that was excellent) he tends to not sell it for me. Also the whole Alistair breaking Dean down by doing nothing but talking was somewhat of a disappointment, considering Dean supposedly had all this experience and 'potential.' And I thought he'd actually freak out more about torturing later? Although I guess he had enough on his mind already. Ugh, I don't know. Sometimes I want to yell at Show to pick a Dean and stick to him, seriously._

_But that's just me. Tell me what you think!_

_(Note: The song Alistair butchers is from While Strolling Through the Park One Day. I thought it was appropriate.)_


	30. catch me

_A/N: Thanks for all the reviews and all the support - I'm finally done with my test! Semester's over, I'm freeee!_

_(For now.)_

* * *

"Dean," Sam says, "please say something."

He somehow looms over Dean without even standing, suddenly looking bigger than ever – his gray shirt pulls tight across his shoulders – and even though he's tried to wipe it away there are still some flecks of red by his chin and next to his nose.

Dean can't help staring at them. They're almost like freckles.

"Dean, come on –"

What do you want me to say, he thinks hysterically. I left hell, I left hell and they gave me you –

"I think Cas is dead," someone with his voice says. Whoever it is does a good job of not sounding freaked. "Check up on him."

Sam's face scrunches up. He glances to where the angel's body is lying on its side, still as a corpse, across from Alistair.

Alistair, who Sam killed.

Dean swallows, does his best to merge with the wall but God, it hurts, it hurts and there's nowhere to run.

"It looks like he could be breathing," Sam says, turning back to Dean, and Dean tries not to quail under his eyes._ No, please, don't send me back there –_

"Check on him," Dean repeats, louder, harsher.

Sam frowns and actually dares to come closer instead, starts to reach his fingers out to Dean. "Not now, Dean, he's an angel, you're the one with their face bashed in six ways to Sunday –"

"Just go," he croaks, and Sam's hand stills, falls mid-motion. Dean feels himself pale. _Don't send me back there._"I'll be fine, okay," he says, trying to cover. "Don't worry."

Sam looks at him for a moment.

"Okay," he says at last, and drags his sleeve across his face, getting the last bits of blood out as he rises to his feet. "Don't – don't move, all right? Don't go anywhere."

There's nowhere to go to. Dean stays silent, watches as Sam crouches over Cas's body and turns it over.

Cas looks dead. His face is more relaxed than Dean's ever seen it, and there's drying blood matting his hair like Alistair got a good hit in before he did… whatever it was he did. Maybe Alistair didn't kill the other angels, but it sure as hell looks as though he killed this one.

Dean's… not really sure how he feels about that. He'd meant it when he told Cas they were through – he'd been more than fine with the thought of never seeing the angel again. Any angel, for that matter.

But he didn't want him dead.

He really didn't want him dead.

"Cas," Sam says, and shakes the angel's shoulders roughly. "Cas!"

_He's dead,_ Dean thinks, when Cas wakes up with a gasp.

"Easy, easy," Sam says, hand holding on to the angel's back as his upper body ratchets forward to cough, and Dean doesn't understand it, how someone with such easy, natural compassion can put his teeth to someone's throat and… drink. "Alistair did a number on you."

"Alistair?" Cas repeats, out of breath. Something's off about it – maybe it's just that Dean's never seen Castiel anything less than composed before.

He guesses trading blows with a demon would do that to you.

"Yeah, you know, the demon?" Sam replies, and clearly hesitates before adding forcefully, "I killed him."

"Oh," Cas says blankly, staring at his hands. "That's, uh, great."

Sam and Dean frown at him.

"You sure you're okay?" Sam asks, eyebrows furrowing. "I think you hit your head."

Cas's hand reaches over his ear, where the blood in his hair is still sort of oozing down. "I'm fine," he says. "Think I'm healed, actually."

Speaking of, Dean thinks, and Sam's clearly of the same mind. "Well while you're at it," he says, "Dean could really use your help. Alistair got him pretty bad before I came in."

Cas frowns up at him slowly. "What do you want me to do?" he asks, still sounding dazed. Something's still bothering Dean about his voice. Maybe it's how unsure of himself he sounds.

Or maybe it's that he sounds high off his ass.

Yeah. Could be that.

"Cas," Dean says wearily. It hurts to talk. "Come on, man." This is bordering on petty. Just because they're not besties anymore doesn't mean that –

He loses his train of thought.

Because Cas is turning his head and looking over at Dean, and their eyes meet, and that's not – that's not Cas at all.

It sounds crazy – it feels crazy – but Dean would know his friend anywhere, and this is… this is someone else.

"Who are you?" he ask blankly, feeling gutted. "Where's… where's Cas?"

"My name's Jimmy," the guy in Castiel's body says. "And I have no idea."

0000

"What?" Sam says, glancing bewilderedly from one to the other. "Jimmy?"

"Jimmy Novak," Jimmy clarifies.

Dean slumps his head against the wall. "Of course," he murmurs dully, and Sam frowns at him. "It's his body. Cas was using it."

It's pretty logical, really – if demons need bodies, why shouldn't angels – and if Dean had thought about it before, he probably would have realized that Cas's body wasn't his.

He just… thought angels were above possession. That Castiel was.

But it's not actually that surprising, is it. Not after everything Cas put him through.

"Well, I did let him," Jimmy says, and Dean realizes why the man's voice bothers him so much – it's on an entirely different register than Castiel's. "He asked."

They blink at him. "And you gave him your body, just like that," Sam says, with an incredulous little furrow between his eyes.

Jimmy shrugs. It's a thoroughly un-Cas like gesture. "He's an angel of the Lord."

Dean and Sam exchange _oh God it's a religious nut _glances. Because that's all this mess needs, really, another clueless-yet-thinks-he-knows-something asshole.

"But now I'd… I'd really like to go home." Jimmy swallows, looking faintly ashamed. "My family, they… they thought I was crazy. So I left. I – I shouldn't have done that. I need to make it up to them."

Dean closes his eyes. Goddamn it, Cas. "Yeah, man," he says. "Okay. Help me up and we'll get you there."

"Dean," Sam starts saying, but Dean doesn't really care about what Sam has to say right now.

"You too, Sam," he interrupts, feeling tired. Tired of Sam, tired of Cas, tired of not-Cas. "Get me outta here."

They grab his arms and haul him to his feet. He staggers, nearly falls against Sam's chest because his legs suddenly decide they belong to some newborn horse instead of a capable grown man.

"Whoa, Dean," Sam says as he scrambles to catch Dean, which doesn't really help with the whole not feeling like a horse thing.

"Not feelin' so good," he mumbles. His head's spinning.

"Yeah, I got that," Sam says. He's crouched a little, Dean's arm over his shoulder, and when he straightens it feels like he takes on a good eighty percent of Dean's weight. Sam's one strong motherfucker.

"I think he needs a hospital," Jimmy says on his other side, carrying the other twenty percent of Dean. Without the angelic possession he's a pretty small and unintimidating guy, dwarfed by the trench coat he wears like Castiel never was. Dean feels like this guy probably was a boyscout back in the day. Maybe he actually is an accountant.

"I'll be fine in the car," Dean tells them, but it comes out garbled and slurred and probably the only thing that actually gets across properly is either 'fine in' or 'the car.'

But he can't bring himself to mind too much. Sam knows what he's talking about.

Goddamn Sam.

"He'll be fine," Goddamn Sam says. "Trust me, we've handled a lot worse than this."

"I don't even want to know," Jimmy says. "But he could probably use a brain CT. Looks like he has a heck of a concussion."

"You a doctor?"

"No, but I don't have to be. Your friend is pretty heavy when he's unconscious."

They lurch to a sudden stop. "Dean," Sam says. "Hey Dean. Wake up."

"I don't think he can," Jimmy says.

"Dean." The world shakes; Dean's entire body rattles. "Come on, man. You gotta help us out here."

His eyes blink open.

"That's it," Sam says. "Stay awake, okay? Dean. Dean! Stay awake."

Stay awake. Sure, he can do that. "Shh," Dean mumbles. Sam heaves a sigh.

They get going again, passing by Alistair's body. His head's tilted back; his eyes stare out into nowhere. There's tracks of blood trailing from his eyes and nose to his chin, where they merge with… with the rest of it.

_Don't remember? We used to be yours –_

Dean tries not to look.

0000

There are bodies outside, scattered across the floor. Three, or five, Dean isn't counting.

But they all have blood crusting down their necks.

0000

They haul Dean down the stairs. Between Jimmy and Sam, Dean feels uncomfortably lopsided – one foot's dragging behind him while the other one barely touches the floor. It makes for a distinctly unpleasant experience.

"Where do you live, anyway?" Sam asks Jimmy. He's probably asking Jimmy, anyway, otherwise it's a silly fucking question.

"Pontiac. Illinois."

Sam, and as a consequence Dean, barely stumble.

"Oh," Sam says, in that controlled bitchface way of his which means he's cursing vehemently in his head.

Not that Dean's ever been inside Sam's head, cuz that'd be weird, but he's learned not to overestimate Sam's cool. Guy can pretend to be a badass hunter all he wants, but inside he has the freaking temperament of a new teen mom.

"Fuck," Dean murmurs wearily, and Sam's hand on his waist (God, he feels like such an effing _girl_) tightens, as if in agreement.

"Hm?" Jimmy says.

Sam glances at Dean – Dean can feel the weight of the hazel eyes he knows so well. Dean tries to roll his eyes to the side and look back at him, but that just hurts his head.

Still, no question about it. This is on them.

"Nothing," Sam says.

* * *

Dean never understood what the big deal was about riding shotgun. Right now he'd like nothing less than to stretch out his legs and lay his head down on a leather seat, because otherwise what's the fucking point of leather seats, seriously.

An elbow jabs his side. "Dude. Dude. Stay awake."

…But no, he has to be in the freaking front, where nothing's comfortable and Sam is a giant douche.

His eyes snap open – he groans, clutches at his forehead. "I'm up, I'm up," he mutters irritably. "I'm not the one conked out back there." He's never been so jealous of a guy in a trench coat in his life.

"That's because Jimmy's not the one with a concussion."

Right, whatever. He's gonna keep feeling bitter, if it's all the same to Sam.

"Hey. You feeling okay?"

And yeah, yet another reason he'd rather be asleep right now. It'd frigging spare him this conversation.

"Dean."

He stares at his hands, flickering a pale blue as they blow through streetlight after streetlight, and shrugs his shoulders. He has nothing not bitchy to say.

"Look, are we… are we gonna talk about this?"

Dean frowns, turns to look at Sam. "About what?" he asks. "Me torturing people in hell, or you drinking their blood?"

Sam makes a little choked noise.

"Yeah," Dean says, and rests his head against the window again. It vibrates against his head. "Let's not."

0000

He hears Sam swallow.

"Dean?"

He keeps his eyes shut.

"Dean, you – you awake?"

Sam's just gonna elbow him again. He shifts in his seat, sighs in annoyance, and latches his eyes on the dark world outside the Impala.

"Yeah," he says. _So you can cool it on the whole 'concerned brother' schpiel you got going on here._

For a while Sam stays silent and Dean entertains hopes that that's all there is, that Sam's just making sure Dean's not bleeding out from his brain while he isn't looking.

Some people might find it hard to feel uncharitable when someone is trying to take care of them so desperately. Some people might think, wow, he really does care. Some people might think Dean should be grateful.

And those people can go fuck themselves.

"Can I," Sam says, stops. His too-long hair makes a faint whooshing sound when he whirls around, checks that Jimmy's asleep, and turns back to the road. "Can I explain myself?"

Dean's eyes shift to Sam, then back out the window.

"Please, just… just give me a chance, you owe me that much."

There are a lot of things Dean owes Sam. Like a healthy ass-kicking, for example. A verbal reaming. A haircut that might accidentally include his earlobes.

He's too tired for any of that.

"Do I?"

Sam's biting his bottom lip. "We have to talk about it, we have to – we have to get past this –"

Like a dog with a bone. The guy's impossible.

"You really think that's gonna help any?" he wonders.

"I…" Sam says helplessly. "I don't know."

At least he's honest.

He turns to face the other man. Something indefinable, vicious, burns in Dean's gut, prompting him to talk. "It was an offer they made."

Sam blinks, looks at him. "What?"

"An offer," he repeats. "To make the pain stop. I had to do to other souls what they did to me."

Sam inhales sharply.

"Hell's like – it's like years down there. No matter how long it is up here it's decades, it's a fucking eternity where they… just rip you open, and, and put you back together. Like magic. So they can start all over."

"Oh God," Sam whispers.

"And you know what? I said no. Every day they'd ask, and every time I'd tell them to fuck off. I didn't want any of it." He looks away. "But then one day, years, decades later, I… I forgot why I shouldn't."

He rests his head back, stares at the Impala's ceiling. There's a little red mark, from when Sam and Jimmy got him in the car and he hit his head.

It'll probably come off.

"I was good at it. I was really, really good at it. I put thousands on that rack, man, I was mothereffing _efficient_. And Alistair loved it. Said I was finally living up to my potential." He stares down at his lap. "It felt good, at first. Hell, it felt great."

"Dean," Sam says, sounding like he's struggling for something to say. "You held on for – for a really long time – it's more than anyone else would even try –"

"But then it started feeling wrong," Dean remembers, talking over him. "Dunno why. Maybe I got bored, maybe that's all it was. Something just… took the thrill out of it."

Sam looks like he's gonna be sick.

"But you can't just do that, you know, stop. They can't let you. Bad press, I guess. So they put me back. Tried to fix me." He closes his eyes. It feels like he's telling a bedtime story.

Finally living up to the big brother role. Real Dean'd be proud.

"It was worse that time, I think, because I already knew what I was capable of. I knew what I was turning down. "

Jimmy's snoring in the back. Something about how ridiculously normal that is strikes Dean as funny..

"Alistair gave up, in the end. Threw me out to where all the other fucked up souls go. And you know what, Sam?"

Sam looks afraid to ask.

It hurts to do it, but his lips stretch into a cruel smirk.

"They remembered me."

The Impala's silent for a moment, but for Jimmy's snores and the rumble of the Impala's wheels on the asphalt. Sam's mouth is slightly ajar, as though he'd been about to say something and froze midway.

Dean breathes out a small chuckle, throat feeling like sandpaper.

Maybe that does it for Sam, the tiny inappropriate cut in the silence – he pulls them over on the side of the road, wheels crackling over pebbles as they come to a stop. His fingers clutch tight to the wheel, knuckles so white they look painful, and he breathes fast through his nose, as if he's trying to calm himself down, as if he's trying really hard not to hit something.

Dean wonders if he's about to get kicked out of the car.

_Do I disgust you, Sam?_

But instead Sam closes his eyes, presses his lips together into a bloodless thin line. "Dean, I don't – I don't even know what to say."

He'd laugh, except he doesn't have the energy. "Was it good for you, Sam? All that sharing, did that make you feel any better?"

"No," Sam says quietly. "I feel like crap."

He squints over, sighs at the expression on Sam's face. "You look like you're gonna cry," he remarks disinterestedly. "Stop that."

Hoarsely. "I can't."

Sam, you giant girl. "For fuck's sake, dude, man the hell up."

The other hunter wets his mouth. "How can you – how can you be like that, I can't – I can't even imagine what it must have taken for you to –"

"Goddamn it, Sam," he says, repulsed. "Just – look away, or something. I'm not getting you a tissue."

But Sam turns to him, doesn't even wipe at his eyes.

"I didn't know, I couldn't know, but I – I tried so hard to get you out, Dean, you gotta believe me, I did everything I could to get you out – I didn't forget you –"

He raises his eyebrows. "What do you want, reassurance? Yes, Sam, I'm sure you did all you fucking could. What I did was on me, not you, you're completely blameless, so please, feel free to sleep like a baby tonight because compared to me, you're freaking Joan of Arc."

Sam doesn't look anything like reassured. "But it's not your fault, you – you know none of it's your fault –"

"Save it, Sam," Dean cuts in, not unkindly. "Bobby already gave me the talk. I got the point."

Sam's face gets this strange, wrinkled look, and Dean has the funny feeling Bobby has a long furious phone call incoming.

He sighs. Sorry, Bobby.

"Let's just go," he says wearily. "Long way to Illinois."

But Sam doesn't move. "I mean it though," he says. "It wasn't your fault. No one can blame you."

How very Good Will Hunting of you, Dean thinks, and doesn't even shrug as he rests his head on the window again.

"Even – even if it was," Sam continues fiercely. "Which it isn't. You paid enough. You went through enough."

He glances at Sam, at the too-earnest eyes, the defiant curve of his mouth.

He looks away.

"My head hurts," he says dully. "Let's just go."

Sam's eyes rest on him for a long moment.

"Okay," he says softly, and starts the car.

0000

They drive in silence for what feels like a long time.

0000

The radio's playing something quiet and cheesy. Dean doesn't remember when Sam turned it on, but since it's Sam he should know better than to expect anything cool and non-alternative.

He does his best to pay attention, though – if he doesn't he'll fall back asleep, and his side can't take much more of Sam jabbing at him.

"It makes me stronger."

Dean shifts his eyes from the windshield. Sam's entire body looks taut, tense, as if bracing for a blow.

He doesn't take the bait, doesn't say anything.

He doesn't actually care.

Sam peeks at him, flinches when he sees Dean just stare back at him indifferently. "The blood, I mean," he elaborates, as if it weren't obvious already. "It makes my powers stronger."

His powers. Of course that's what it's all about.

Guess Sammy's a junkie after all.

The other hunter waits for a bit, and then swallows when there's no reply. "I know I promised you I'd stop. And I did, but –"

"Is this what you've been doing, all this time?" Dean interrupts. "Drinking – drinking people?"

_The taste of copper. _He shakes the thought away.

"Demon blood," Sam corrects, and wipes at his mouth nervously.

"That comes from people."

Sam's eyes dart to the windshield, looking uncomfortable. "I… I know."

Dean folds his arms, lowers his chin to his chest. "Glad you know."

Sam changes tack, like maybe he doesn't want to follow that train of thought too closely. "Look, I stopped doing all that for a while, just like I told you. That wasn't a lie. But when you told me the angels wanted us on the sidelines, I… I couldn't just sit and let the world end, Dean, I had to do something."

Of course. Should have known. This is on him too.

(The irony, it kills.)

"And that something was…?" he says, as if from far away. His throat hurts.

"Ruby and I figured it out when you were in hell, that demon blood… helped along whatever Yellow Eyes did to me. Made me stronger, more powerful. Dean, you've no idea what I can do. I think I – I think I actually got a shot at killing Lilith and stopping all this from happening."

No, Dean thinks, I don't know what you can do. "You think so?"

There's something almost feverish, almost wild in the way Sam looks at Dean. "I know it sounds crazy, okay, but you got to believe me. The angels aren't on our side. I don't know whose side they're on, but every seal Ruby and I found had zero angels on them. I think they're playing us, dude."

Nothing surprises him anymore. "You've been protecting seals."

"Trying to, anyway, we're not having much luck," Sam answers.

"I see," he says faintly.

Sam glances at him. "Listen, I know you think we can't stop it, but we have to try, don't we?" He hesitates, looks like he's trying to smile. "We can't let evil win."

He nods. "Yeah," he says. "Of course not."

"So." Sam's voice is almost inaudible. He clears his throat. "So that's – that's me. Now you know why – that's why I've been –"

"Secretive? Bitchy? Sneaking out to Ruby's at night?" Dean finishes.

Sam flinches minutely. "Yeah." _Sorry_, Dean can hear him want to say.

Dean is really, really tired of Sam being sorry. "Yeah, okay. Is that it? Anything else?"

"Um." Sam's eyes flicker over. "No. That's it."

"Good to know," he mutters, and lets his eyes drift shut. The radio's still playing faintly in the background, this time something sweet and melancholy that he'd never ordinarily want to listen to.

Kinda suits his mood, though.

"Dean, aren't you… aren't you going to say anything?"

He thinks about it for a moment, listening to Jimmy's quiet snores, Sam's anxious breathing.

He shrugs.

"Nope," he says, and amps up the volume, drowning them both out.

0000

They get to Pontiac early, before the morning traffic has a chance to get obnoxious.

"Hey princess," Dean calls out, turning to face the backseat. "Sleeping Beauty. Get your ass up, we're here."

Jimmy's eyes flutter open. He stretches his arms, muffles a yawn, and suddenly makes a face like he's been punched in the gut.

"Lord," he says, "I'm starving. I don't think Castiel had anything to eat when he possessed me."

"You want to grab breakfast first?" Dean asks, because maybe he wants to get rid of the guy, but he's not a complete asshole. "Do this on a full stomach?"

Jimmy freezes, arms hanging in midair. He looks out the window, and the blood seems to just rush from his face.

A second later, the backseat's empty, door slamming shut.

Dean sighs. "That answers that," he mutters, and exits the car, making his way to where Jimmy's standing and staring at a white, cookie-cutter house.

Sam joins them a moment later.

"So," Dean says finally, shifting from foot to foot. "Do you want us to come with you?

"Help explain to them that you're not crazy?" Sam adds.

He bites his bottom lip, and after a second shakes his head. "I got to do this alone."

"Good man," Dean says, and cuffs the man's shoulder. It probably hurts Dean more than Jimmy, at this point. "You need anything, you got our number."

"Line the windows with salt," Sam says. "Just in case. You know how to draw a devil's trap?"

Jimmy looks at them. "I think so."

Sam and Dean look at each other. Dean shrugs.

"Okay," Sam says. Jimmy holds out his hand, and he shakes it. "Take care of yourself."

"You too," Jimmy says. "Good luck."

He shakes Dean's hand, and Sam starts heading back to the car.

Dean looks after him, sighs inwardly.

"Hey," he says abruptly. "Jimmy. You saw – you had to have seen heaven, right?"

"Yeah," Jimmy answers. "I mean, just bits and pieces, but yeah."

"Well, is it –" his throat tightens. "Is it worth it?"

Jimmy frowns, doesn't reply immediately.

"Well, Dean," he says, almost gentle, "it has to be better than hell, right?"

His eyes widen for a split second, and then Dean's mouth somehow quirks into a smile he doesn't really feel.

So much for Sleeping Beauty.

"Right," he echoes. "Has to be."

0000

They watch from the car as Jimmy's let inside the house.

"That's gotta be an interesting conversation," Sam remarks. "Coming home after all that time."

Dean glances at him.

"Yeah," he says. "Don't envy him one bit."

* * *

He leaves in the middle of the night, while Sam's still sleeping.

It's better that way.

* * *

_A/N: The angst, it kills._

_So here are some answers. You finally know what Sam's been up to, as well as that Dean's efforts to distract Sam from the apocalypse have been extremely counterproductive. And you know that whatever Alistair did, Cas is out of the picture (or is he). _

_As for Dean leaving Sam... well, hopefully you get his thought process, even if you might not agree. I guess the poor guy got pretty overwhelmed..._

_Questions? Comments? Feel free to review!_


End file.
